the lord of winter

the lord of winter breathes

down my throat into my lungs like sparse chambers

where I died waiting for you. he drains the light

from sepia-toned autumn, flipping shut the slats

of the blinds so that half the day is now lived

in the dark.

.

the lord of winter demands payment

in the form of the gifts you wrap

but never get to give, in the echo

of the type of news that can reach you

even through spiced cider and pine,

that can send you on a long walk

down a hospital hall.

.

the lord of winter loves a good silence,

a chance to peek over the shoulders

of the deer in the woods, or to settle

beside me as I sit by your grave.

every word I say with him so near is an epitaph,

even thoughts of the future a strange

retrospection.

.

the lord of winter is envious of our warmth,

fingers like icicles clinging like bars

to the windows of our heated homes.

envy is the most dangerous of emotions they say,

a starvation that devours everything including

itself and is still never full.

he cracks the windows leaning

his forehead against the glass, trying to see

inside, making the house scream

with the dropping of the thermostat.

.

the lord of winter feels misunderstood:

he cannot, after all, be anything other than

what he is, and neither, he would say,

if he could speak past a howl of the wind

in the skeletal trees, can you.

.

the lord of winter harbors our memories,

our grief, our loneliness. he bears our hatred,

shakes a long cold finger and says, now, now,

without me, you'd never have spring.

.

the lord of winter loves us through pain,

and that which he loves, he never fully lets go.