He was colors of nature, the sun, the sky
in his hair and eyes
I looked on him and felt my cold heart
not warm
but beat
memory and thought
pale as moonlight
I dreamed him
perhaps I saw more than was there
clouds were gathering
I felt him try to hold me yet
he went through me
like a specter
but close enough
to the past
that he made me feel
that old wound
that old scar
we were salty he and I
his sweat
but me who always cries
after the wild hunt
the death of the stag
I couldnt give him
immortality like most women-
in form, in a new creation..
for
I am thousands of years old-
I dwell
where winter winds rustle
blowing endless pine needles
everywhere
I lean out
my dark hair flying
a mournful screech
the ravens alight awkwardly
all around
on branches
awaiting
longing
The Spoils of War 