Confined to words on polished paper
Inclined the statement then to fake her
Any words, about any trees
Anything to think of me
A new rose in late December
The frost froze back a week or two
The parcel post and letters lent her
A short respite from nothing new
Fingers pick the stringed guitars
Fingers which don't reach to the stars
A new quiet then to fend her skin
From the embers of her tethered din
Inclined to find a hill top turning
Horizons prised from treeless leaves
