the snow, it spirals as it’s falling,
reaching out across the cosmic dark
like an octopus caught in a net
of a million stars.
i stand alone but for the trees—
an audience of quills,
ocean stalagmites buried in
the hollow mountain
trenches.
quietly, the cold builds
its icy mausoleum where i will
be unspun—
my skin a sweater
i was made to wear
to my own eulogy:
what will they say
when the last leaf forgets
my name?