by Lana Bella

Now she knew it has been winter
soaking long stretches of rivers
and fields. Moving hands into
pockets thick of tweed, skin felt
the hollows flaked softly what
snow patterns made, enwreathed
to the islands of her bone-bed.
Parched lungs dry with scratched
in gin, she pitched whistles to
the stings of a drizzly sun frantic
to sink, loose-limbed, the tinct
of some quiet wild thing. Turning
a brown pair of Moccasins over
the raw braille of grass, she borne
lilts angling like fatwood worn
to stumps, slivering the slippery
slope of the hills from which
her flesh on this land-locked life
bruised long in the light of winter.