Words I've Lost (We'll Speak Again in the After-Life)

I resemble the cripple of a frozen branch. Hands that refused
to cup yours when brought in from winter, 

tingle of flesh once alive —
death of all small things lingered. Supple waves

of wheat, a likeness now gone.
& when I tried to speak of what I saw (

hoarfrost petals in a deep-freeze garden
draw of horizon like a knife across the long gray sea,
to cut from sky another morning

) no words arrived.

Instead, this ugly stumble, a mid-night lurch
to another room. My mouth emits sound

unbound to precision. I lose my language
like a quick spring thaw. A defect to stress

as tongue meets ridgeline,
trim of winged letters &

the long red string
that once bound our blood thinned —