Dry Limbs
Like a tree too often
bitten by frost
our limbs are brittle now.
These brushes with fate do not,
damn the cost, soften
breaking pieces, not knowing how.
Around the tree of marriage
more dead branches lie
at our feet, day by day,
less fresh growth, weakened undercarriage,
bonds about to untie,
clandestine hearts pulling to meet.
Kind feelings not enough
to glue love together
against years of winters,
parting no longer a bluff
to our union.