Hands leathered and dark stained from
outside cold cozy a tea mug and accompany
his impatient wait for her return. Dark rolls
away across the ridge top. Finally, breathless,
she bursts in trailing the aftertaste of cold, rushes
to the table. "I brought you a gold leaf covered
in frost," she says. "But it melted."
He looks at the pile of withered yellow leaves
tired and dead next to his hands, equally
fruitless. His mind slides to the cupboard, to
the drugs that keep him from bringing about his
own death, see them to his art like the wood stove
to her frost: destroying brilliant unique beauty
but keeping the house comfortable warm.
He glances down, see his hands have moved of their
own accord and are squeezing the acrid scented bundle.
He meets her eyes and they blink together, sigh. Smile.
"Tea?" He asks and she resigns herself to a chair as he
and reaches for the kettle.
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