Frozen, they placed heavy footprints
on hard-packed foliage, etched ice;
the withered bark stretched around
in slanting lines, near-collapsing.
Moving these weights, one step, two;
these notions in a February mist;
regrets like the broken skies above,
where clouds drift dark with mingled smoke
from fires marking from whence they came.
But no scars give away their crime;
forged steel purpose in their mind;
enclosures rigid, fences reared,
and minutes pass, drift, into years...
That one summer, where they fell
together, interloping, eager-eyed;
all promises once carved in ink;
erased and shredded, burned, buried.
Night now draws on,
the stars are veiled,
for no lights would be seen
shining upon them.
NB: NOT a poem about politics per se.