The Year is Waning

The year is waning
the cold air comes to
hurt my throat and
make my voice rasp
wintering - and I am
fretting in a place with a
person who withholds a
greatest treasure, movement
and people I
cannot reach myself
because my feet cannot
carry me and my
face cannot plead. I am
beholden yet to this older
friend unfathomable with a
closed face and
grim expression - my
mother knew her
better than me, but
I am here
and she is gone
and I am left discerning
all the unfamiliar
world I must
relearn.

previous poem