Bury

The summer field feels itself lost.
Engulfed in snow it becomes something lonelier.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
But my self absconded. Slipping through your fingers.
Lidded eyes and limp wrists were left.
After you pierced my flesh and fished me through the cold,
I writhed and blubbered.
After you reeled me in,
You packed me under deadening whiteness. To preserve me, you claimed.
The summer field, all prairiegrass and blackeyed Susans,
Has its many tasks, extending its palette past its boundaries.
The winter field submerges all else.
For those dear hours, I was annihilated.
And my body, a sold thing no longer,
Which you have long loved well-
Gossamer though it was-
Did not love you. Fleeting filament of light.