December, when
the cold skeletons of trees
rub their bones together, the chill air
makes us shiver around the fire, on
the streets of an old colony town.
We went back, the past
as we started anew; the mausoleum, the old homes
of old lives; remembering the bones of ancient loves
the cries of babies long grown to hoary age,
long dead, long gone.
An we, in the middle, our love
barely begun; loving, touching, warmth, life.
We shiver amongst the old homes, old bones,
and draw close,
and live.
