They leave the night before, tracing lost roads
the cassette player wheezing out the wrong words
so she cuts them off, leaves them echoing
until the crunch of gravel wakes you up
It is always different this time of the year
leaves still snuggling up in their buds
stairs too cold, birds too quiet
but this time, another kind of different
when you listen to the firewood sparkles
and the chopchopchop of vegetables
sliced too firmly and her fading steps
She returns an hour later to the cooling soup
hair dripping from the icy lake
tears and smoke still clinging to her skin
Later, the three of you pretend to sleep
mimicking each other’s breathing in the dark
you wait until her sniffles turn to snores
then, stretching your feet past the creaking steps
you reach the floor and slip into the forest
Sleepy branches grasp for your tangles
sprays of fern whisper at your feet
as you run from their rift, out of their reach
into their dreams
You catch your breath behind the scenes
letting them sleep just a little longer
sleep like everything is still alive
