a winter's tale

Words do not come easy.
What to do about summer’s love undone.
Splitting laughter has turned to winter’s spitting wind.
I am sideways and skidding; a millimeter short of a wreck;
hear the wheels sharp sudden shock.
Quick! Someone sound the alarm;
break hard the glass, pull lever yellow,
cover your ears to the ping bellow.
Never mind the mourning dove in her nest:
It is I who pine – gentle, soft in the mornings fog.
You are no longer mine.
I wear these color sucking blacks –
sat Shiva – it never ended.
Summer made of me a lover:
Winter leaves me a widow.
The world has grown deaf to my silence.