Apnea

he slows to her rhythms

to the softness of her steps

to the silence of the trees.

why this winter she ask

do they

hold so long to their leaves?

inhale

with her fingers, she traces the gentle

memories of birds, black on white,

the held breath of stillness

where body blue hesitates to let go.

Is it time?

a little longer,

sinking to where

memory unravels; tired,

he looks

to her eyes

melting into

the absence of

color,

ice flows

from water to air,

she takes his hand

and leads him toward where

  in the river

ashes are

thrown.

It is time

exhale