l a v e n d a r . . . g a t e . . . .

the snow was falling
like a gate
the bulb was burning full o fhat
the door was open
just ajar

the tracks were leading
but not far

no one there to run
the car
no light turned off
the storm was far

the snow crept in
and melted fast
the flakes kept falling
dark to last

no one now speaks
of things
left past

when winter nights
come flurry seek