A Cycle of Endings
At 13, he was too young to reminisce;
he did it anyway, at the behest of the citrine sky.
It was always the same when winter came.
Snow covered those summer fields and
dusk took them into its cloak of shadows, a cycle of endings
that somehow always came as a surprise. The barn lights called him home
earlier and earlier, into deepening purple and cold toes.
He slid one hand along the slushy horse fence,
a lifeline between the trees,
and remembered his mama in her bed,
how quickly her ending had come around.
How quickly they always do.