THE GHOSTS OF NOTHING
sometimes, in the country
(when even winter is exhausted by itself)
the stillness and the cold forget to argue over
who is more important,
so they don't.
and all things usually harsh, become soft.
the part of you that used to simply tolerate
wears off, while acceptance creeps in.
you let it.
the quiet that so easily, once before, haunted your past
allows translation. it's not your fault she left,
you were always good enough.