Blood in Winter
Entwined branches of
birches in the distance
are guardians of
the white fields
Hands like paper
or bark, they smell
of earth and coffee,
over eyes to hide
From cherry circles
on fresh snow, crimson
droplets on linoleum,
from a world too blurry
Through glasses not your
own. So young to have
to wear such thick glasses, back
when we drank from strawberry jam jars
Knees trembling like that
long ago eaten jelly
as the dogs run to the treeline
and a faded line of defense
is lost forever to a blizzard
Thistle Thoughts 