Early Winter

Artifax, Vol. 2.1 (1972)

Chris Cannady

Everywhere the trace of early winter,
the hard clarity of something missed.
Helpless as shadows
we are haunted by the light
breaking into pieces across your desk
where books, papers, your glasses
exude a sharpness
delicate as the sun burning depth to the room.

And in the letters we forgot you kept,
the old papers falling from books,
we are reminded
as we hold your picture like a breath,
finger the cross you once wore:
words we can never say
hang around our necks.

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