She left her heartstrings hidden in the sofa
as she wrote by closed panes of frosted glass those
curled letters and lines that
drew deep into the paper,
saw with the clarity of
the dried ink on her hands,
the stars from maddening earth that she wanted
to tilt just left so that all could see how
wrong it was that buds grew for him
in that cold soil,
not for her.
She would never forget those days when both of them
had roses
in the open window boxes where soft poetry
used to spill from her hands like melted snow
and trace from her pen like the words from his lips,
"I love you,"
buried right with him
when winter was still
only coming.