IT’S TOO LATE

NIGHT CHILL

In the woods our ghosts weave their icy dreams between trees.

In the woods our past rises in a slow dance out of frozen darkness

In the woods our voices, our smiles, the dread of our lost children echo

And we lose ourselves in what might have been.

All night the wind, the muffled bark of a dog-fox

All night the clatter of branches, the shuffling of a badger

All night the shared memory of screams burrows us into our blankets

And we lose ourselves in what might never be.

As frost settles into the earth, tears dry up, taunt us

As frost makes brittle twigs of broken hopes and haunted fears

As frost lets shapeless mist curl around us, squeeze us, swallow us

And we lose ourselves in what must not be said

At the edge of the pond on a dead oak, a barn owl waits

At the edge of the pond in the roots of an ash, a resting deer waits

At the edge of the pond in climbing ivy on a dead birch, a squirrel waits

And we lose ourselves in what we should have done