And After
Encircled by mist, the sky
is a blurred series of hypotheticals.
Leaves weep their colors.
Cold embraces, chills as it touches.
With each dark omen of crows
another squirrel scampers
along fence line to being a ghost.
Even my empty arms know death
is no more predictable
than when you became ethereal,
nothing left of you to hold
but the weightlessness of ash.
The Inflectionist Review
June 2025
