Something happened here.
Past a childhood’s red harvest,
Ice returns in white jasper and origami of winter trees
It was a blood moon and cut-wrist of cathedral bells –
Daring all these vacant streets to matter.
Our shadows embed in markings of cold stones,
As snow whispered over a bright lament of red-shifted birds.
From a boat of preserved memory,
Fragile histories attempted to cross night’s swollen river,
But it had been tried before.
Something happened here,
Where long beyond a single life,
In an ending red harvest –
Our entangled days were held together in shadows
And folded paper of winter trees,
Daring all these vacant streets to matter.