a thing

among the thinnest twine,
finds a red scarf untrimmed,
this thing of only claws,

his mornings are composed
of arguments with sun,
the thousand candles burning
at its core.

on the forest floor he wept,
eyes open; ‘how mild,’ he thought,
the fertile bloom of realizing
that he was not alone.

if he fell in love right now,
what would the forest say?
what would the forest say
if he fell in love today?

and his footsteps looked beautiful in the snow.
it matters not that he did not wear shoes,
that he did not wear socks, it matters not.

— A. P.

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