The Man with the Barbed Wire Crown

The Man with the Barbed Wire Crown

The lake is frozen,
the mountain slopes draped
in puffed-up white blankets.

Here and there
(as if out of place)
tree tops poke through the snow;
little blackheads,
their branches
their roots
their essence
spreading infection over the land.

The curtains are drawn,
are the wolves starving outside
as I sip my tea
behind the bolted cabin door?

A dog-eared Grisham yawns
on the footrest by the chair,
bored of its own plot.

Dancing flames devour
the last of summer’s pine cones;
smoking chimney,
barbed wire bundles
to be recycled,
to be woven
into crowns of love.
It’s a perfect fit.
I pull it down,
over my infection,

pink footprints bright
in white light,
in pure snowfall delight;
I stroll to the lake.

I want to meet the wolves;
their wet snouts
sniffing me out;
their steamy breaths
bathing me with death;
their blameless ice-blue eyes;
I want to be deafened
by their haunting howls and cries.

I hear a snort.
I cry.
For something.
At least.

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