Over the Snow
Morning, and my voice box tightens.
I want to reach inside my organs
and move everything out.
More to feel the blood than anything.
More to be inside the blood;
the heart spilling stroke
across my breast.
Instead, I wear gloves and follow
leaves that died and entered their rooms.
Those I loved wait in their graves
for beautiful gold to filter down
over their brows.
The beehive is dead.
Sections lay over the snow. ‘My thoughts are
Why does no one come to see me?
How many lepers did Christ heal;
how many turned to thank him?
Is heaven all the fruit I fed my child,
and which voice will be heard today?