melancholy

Your words have the sound of a loon
seeking its mate in the fog engulfing the bay.
Or a train, running down the hollow,
with each crossing, the wail more somber
until at last, silence. Alone,
I'm accompanied by the crackle from the hearth.

I nod off, your words laid across my heart,
until a gush of wind drives the limb,
the one I’d meant to cut last fall, against the roof
rustling me from a fretful sleep.
Your words float to the floor, as I sit up
and I watch the waning moon rise.

Pale light reflects off the snow,
displaying diamonds on its crusty surface.
I go, bundled against the cold,
seeking the perfect stone
but they’re only illusions and my steps squeak.
Once broken, will a heart ever mend?