this is what we've always done.

you called,

and my foot
tortured itself
with no pureness of accident
to bring me here.

here, hear it cuss,
percuss
against the static
of your moonlit grove
marring the white carpet
as i drum slowly through.

sylvia, your season compels me
with its icy majesty,
your roughness hidden with such grace
under snowy skin

but even as I come to you
you stand without embrace

i look behind with hesitance
what gift have i forgot and
whose lamb do i owe?

your arms are bare,
your dry fingers scratch the air.

i have the bite of the moon
and the sting of the sun
and still i feel alone.

i came because this is what we've always done

and as always
though i am here
i am still on my way.