A metal table in the sun. Beyond it, winter.
Two women sit, brought here by rambling.
One woman weeps, tears of mortality.
The other woman rhymes with her.
Everything rhymes eventually, though
neither of them know it yet. The grass.
The snow. The dirt. The way the two women lean
into shadows. It’s not that time makes demands,
it’s just that the women still see themselves
as separate. They grasp at the present,
thinking this makes them a part of it.
Meanwhile, the birds. Meanwhile,
the trees. Meanwhile, the cells, changing.
Meanwhile the sun slides down the sky.
