Dark of Winter


Despite the pines filled with needles,
I run across their aisle of whitebrown carpet like a groom.

Despite the black silk curtains falling in a smooth cascade of lines,
I crush them in my fist and think of my mother.

Despite my mother’s brown hair falling in a helix
Like a staircase, I walk straight by her.

Despite my running taking me forward,
I gather memories like rotten berries to cover the darkness.

There, with them, I went nowhere. The Spring’s emerald grass
Has blemished the whiteness like a thunderhead beneath.

Above the pine needles, above the shrinking
Whitebrown ground, I take on the clouds from tomorrows

And uncover my face to the dark of Winter.


David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith
of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis,
(b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five
2 One Magazine, etc.

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