Her dress swirls around her ankles,
her shoulders twist. A gear, a golden timepiece,
a clock that has jumped ahead of cadence too fast.
A thrust so hard her eyes turn back
exposing the white layer
beneath the circle’s blue center.
Ebony strands of streaming nightshade
swirl their surface of thin lines.
The dense woods still. December’s first snow,
a white carpet of cotton across limbs of brush.
Air thick with chilled breath,
she stumbles along the forest path.
Lost there inside dark shapes, thickets
beyond the frozen line of snow.
No air to feed her starved lungs,
not understanding the decision of the Gods,
had death finally come for her?
To leave her frozen corpse undiscovered?
What would time steal?
She closes her eyes into a dark shroud.
A last thought before her breath is stolen:
What have I already forgotten?
Will I dream?
From Publishing and The Writer's Life with Anique Sara Taylor
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