You and the idles of March

The morning I decided to leave the sky was
in between Wedgewood and Wyeth, almost too crisp.
All the trees were pretending to be birches.

I tried to pull you from your sleep but you clung
to what seemed real, told me what you thought
you wanted me to hear.

I ran through your dreams in black and white.
As i passed the barns outside of town the world became an Ansel Adams
print. The starkness made my lungs burst, and hands grip saplings for
balance.

It was a dry snow stacking up as the woods grew thicker, darker--as if
morning was never again to wake us.
I could hear no birds, nothing but the
pounding of what once was my heart. I'd never hoped to define silence.