The ragged edge of nails I've bitten
like border of forests, all smitten
by snowfall on ruins, tasting like wet stones
singing stories I've never written.
Tramping footsteps scarring the leaf-fall
pressing the earth's carpet under hall
shelters litany of missives, in time
for the dead, wander in cuckoo's call.
Between the sky and these snow caps raise
a tumult to a dark orphaned gaze,
what can be sought, neither bargained nor bought
within this clumsy turn of a phrase.