Callisto

winter crawls near

like a wakening bear,

bottomless eyes and

flashing teeth,

greedy

and wide

and

coming, coming.

--

the sky knows.

--

it shivers,

hiding from the dawn

behind

tattered grey shrouds

long after i

open my door.

--

the forest grieves.

--

thin branches

stretch longing

hands

after dry leaves

even as i follow

their final arc

to join

the

red-piled effigies below.

--

the earth hungers.

--

dark grass beckons

silent and

almond-sweet,

grabbing at my steps

with frost-bitten

fingers,

framing the spaces

i leave

in my wake.

--

the air snarls.

--

my ragged breath

steams

a pearly-hued flush,

hanging

between now-naked trees

until sharp,

jealous wind

snatches the phantom heat

for itself.

--

the river remembers.

--

fragile ice whispers

my last-year tales

along

an ash-black bank,

while younger water

streams

downhill,

running, running.

--

the storm devours.

--

claws of cold

scratch harsh eulogies

deep into

quavering hills,

and i watch alone

as the last spice-rich

dregs

of autumn

vanish again

into the claim

of that vast,

white,

ravenous mouth.