You, my snowstorm mother—gray lady

of winter destined to suffer, wailing

like one of the damned as death shudders

through you with an echo. An echo

of the hollow girl stolen away by the sun;

an echo of an angel sprouting curls,

just like mine.

With autumn comes another apocalypse

and crackling leaves sounds like hellfire.

I loom beneath your possessed skin,

a beautiful demon made by the blood

stained on your hands. I weigh so heavy

in your once-vacant soul that concrete breaks

under your footsteps. Every crack is an open

wound that, by some miracle, we float above

on wings of hope.

I meant what I said in my first breath—

your fallen sunshine still glows inside me

after all these years, a stubborn flame

morphing me into impossible colors.

The wilted March tulips you grew share

my thudding pulse; I will be your bridge,

just a spine bent with devotion, and carry

you to heaven after every storm.