Under smoke signals murmuring to heaven or something,
Atlas grows weary of bearing Winter and her lonesome gore,
a hibernation of survivor’s guilt for three months or six
depending. Her eyes are dilated, tethered to the dirt,
making provisions for immolation so creative
it is swathed as an act of providence.
“Hold close her heart,” I tell him, “under waves of hungry,
velvet Earth-love. Let her be a handful of rotting
willows, permafrost embraced, layered of something new.
Take her home, carrion of Autumn, and bury her in white.”