January 15, 16

*
We may not yet be
beyond
history:
nothing moves
in blue skies.
The fir trees
are still.

Expectancies

A certain 
dread
of the approaching moment.
Boot treads crush
the brittle ice.
Your word.

*
The wounds of history
still ache
in the cold.
Our bodies
bear the memory
of each bruise.

Despite

or however much
we choose
to forget.  “Hatred
does not conquer 
hatred”
(before the coming
rain)