A cyclical heart wed cynical bones,

her persistence and bright blue resistance 

worn as medallions, voice warm as stone.

A fallen tree is a soon risen man,

losing leaves in refusal to grieve,

You hear that? Tell them I’m not crazy, Ann.

A fireplace burns every word he left.

Compression soon turns thoughts to obsession,

not a single mind to be but bereft.

Broken branches reaching like fingertips.

Familiar scent of pine, tied in twine

with a reach out, eyes turn to an eclipse.