Crackle of Winter Leaves

In dream country, I call you, say your name above the crackle of winter leaves:

Miracola, come to me with hair streaming down and mud between your toes, tattered hem shifting, gossamer softly laboring to reach down, brush brittle grass, scatter seeds bristling to pilot on dawn’s gentle breeze

Miracola, chewer of pine needles, simple black elderberries, kefir, eater of living kale by the roots, frost-warped, heart-broken tomatoes trapped in vine collapse, I want to confess longing for your lips, to fill you, be you, young and harsh

Miracola, confessions come to you from busted lips and wheezing lungs as you travel trails unknown, caressing wind-up rocks and old trees with snippy branches, bramble thorns twisted in serene decline, grasping at your skirt

In sun-busted morning, I call your name above the pouring waters of our secret stream, feel frost warming away, stretch to touch your dissolving black-capped feathers, you chickadee, you vanishing mist, you Miracola evaporating in me
 
(From “Hard Holidays” writing prompt. Working with a group of writers composing pieces that explore the underbelly of cloyingly sweet holiday nonsense.)
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