Your memory scrabbles
at my waking dreams sometimes
like starving juncos in winter’s wind
scratching at the snow for food.

It seems you slipped away
down some ice-bound North Slope of the mind,
inexplicably charting a course
beyond the hope of thaw.

From there you wield your absence
like a frozen whip of silence,
meant to punish those you loved
and will not name.

I sadly feel the lashes cut
then slice their cruel path
back to you,
disfiguring your image
in the eyes of all who cannot see you.

This morning, gray and white
among the feast of seeds
fallen from my hand,
the juncos bob in thanks
outside my door;

while somewhere, you,
mistrusting truth
and all of love’s warm gifts,
hunger in the frost
of your own
mistaken
winter.