Absence During Winter Poem by Vincent James Turner

“What is life’s worth if not trudging the infinite circle
of grief and contentment and all sensation in-between “.


Snow acquaints strangers
by print of foot.
It could be you, size eight,
pace slow and exquisite.
Feather- light stride
barely bruising the veil of flurry.

I could trek each step
as in sleep,
where the lanes of you and I
each night I wander.
Like a boy on a beach
Scanning the sand
Slowly, so not to miss the beep.

Yet come morning
When the chapter of night
reads into the epilogue of dawn
the snow
robbed of seasonal appeal
is but black slush
slippery and unforgiving
and your footsteps
blur into a patchwork of puddle’d ice.

Either way you remain a whisper.
A distant reality
which when considered
comes plummeting
with unspent contempt.

So I linger for now
beneath grisly grey sky
devoid of cloud
moon or stars
I sketch
with lethargic breath
your face.