Winding Sheet

Winding Sheet-by Douglas Thompson


Winded, wounded
there will be no more poems
the day you leave me
only winter’s first snows
fallen all along the distant mountains
like the form of a sleeping woman
her back turned.

As if every frost crystal
falling gently one by one
throughout the silent night
with melt-in-mouth
frisson of my tongue
upon your satin skin were
this blanket, shift dress, slip
my shroud.

I will cease to talk
and set off into the wilderness
instead, a painter perhaps
an easel on his back
his shock of hair like brushes
who no longer has the heart
to speak into the wind
only to listen.

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