It's Still Life

An Old Hunger

She watches the clouds —
her grey wild horses.
They snarl at rain,
muscle the sky.

A single flame wavers,

left hand for memory,
right hand for will.
Intention.
Intention.
She pulls the darkest one
to her, and
calls it by name.

Winter is long and
its darkness is an old hunger,

so she sits with it.
Lets it drink from her tea.
Lets it speak in a voice
only bones remember.

Some shadows,
you must ask to stay.