winter's voice

Sparse grass, roots and weeds jut out
from the newly fallen snow.
Trees become ghostly skeletons.
Menacingly awaken,
reaching, taunting,
as terrifying as the storm.

Her footsteps marr the virgin snow;
lead to the lonely clearing,
and are quickly swept away
by unseen hands,
as she says her last goodbyes.

The wood is still,
a woven quilt of
interlocking threads that
loom high in false embrace.

Her umbrella
heavy with newness,
adds another burden on shoulders
already weighed down,
for one so young to bear.

A voice distant,
beckons for her return.
Softly it calls on the wind
yet it's source,
a few yards away.

She pats the mound firm,
fingertips lingering,
unable to bring herself loss
as if memories would vanish,
carried along the westward wind.