Durga, 13

my voice 
grows slim in the
slim seasons; all the
echoes have died away
and the loneliness of
the world is exposed
for what it is.
someone is whittling
a stick down to
nothing; the geese
and cowards, all fly
south. I prepare to make
a bed of ice, to sleep
alone, the way we will die. 
it is strange to me, Durga
how now, more so
than in summer (which
stands on top of the
world and sings with
all its birds at once)
I feel the roots of your 
fingers most tenderly
knotted in my heart.
​