fir, heavily laden
boughs straining with the first signs of winter
where once i had walked with you
i now walked alone
the crunch of fresh powder
the lone trail of prints
feeling your fingers still
where they had once been entwined,
inseparable
but that day
was the first of many
with naked hands, fingers aching
for the security of your soft touch
the fir seemed resigned to its fate
bending, groaning
but resolute in its pursuit of beauty
so i took heed
and trudged on, forging a new path
where we had never been
& would never go
the…