Encounter with the Dead

The convoy of my dead passes by

while I waltz among the trees to stay warm.

Their faces glare at me

like rooms emptied of all furniture.

I kneel, touch the snow and the black patches of earth,

play this makeshift piano with my frozen fingers.

The dead stop to listen.

The ice on their skin creases and breaks.

The silence of the clouds fills my ears,

so their voices do not reach me.

I gesture: Stay.

They shake their translucent heads.

The sky opens its lonely eyelid

and invites me in for the evening.