forty five

mountain fog fills your lungs
ice creeps into your heart
winter is entering intravenously

the trees have shed their skin
the sun has grown thin
November strips the mountain naked

climb to the top
and cast off
the things that you never needed
your eyes have grown old
and your fingers cold
hold onto
the thoughts you've never spoken

white snow is falling fast
it fills your small mouth
and freezes the ends of your eyelashes

the yellow grass on the balds
is beaten by the wind
as she pulls you toward the frigid cliffside

climb to the top
and cast off
the things that you never needed
your eyes have grown old
and your fingers cold
let go