[dreadwolf]

the spruce tree is decorated in green and red of Christmas
the whole tree is a site to see but as i sit here i try to block
out that witch i know is coming the eggs will have to stay in
there carton on eggnog this year for death is near

[azaleaburr]

There on the hill, as the guns fire ‘round,
he leaves her: her cross, a parceled ground
covered with stones, her silken scarf laid
across her name, which he never said

enough. Bright gunsmoke takes the place
of flowers. He knew that last look
of release was how he’d remember her face,
peaceful, parting. His worst enemy took

what was left of time: her infinite grace,
erect and astride her spirited horse: they raced,
one morning, summers past, for the shrine
across these hills: he has nothing now but time.

A flourish, a fanfare, the silent guns:
still all the earth, now: her race is run.