The memory of it is unclear
but does it really matter what
is true after all these years? 
What is the use of insisting
that this vision was stolen,
not lived, or that your real life
consists of stories that never
happened to anyone at all? 
Winter always arrives before
we have had time to prepare.

Shadows are seen best in winter
when the light is stingy –not sheer,
these castings of the chilled sun,
but slow and methodical.  They do
not turn suddenly or forget to stand
beside me as I search the land
for some refuge from the cold. They
let me know I exist when nothing
embraces me but the north wind,
the frosted bare silence of the trees.