A blaze of red against a sky scoured white
by wind, the sweater straggles, caught tight
by scraggly limbs. Its empty arms reach down
as though desperate to clutch the crusted ground.
It’s frayed and nubby, plush cashmere now spent
and left to waft a hint of lingering floral scent
mixed with leaf mold and dirt and dying things gone soft.
I tug.The branch holds tight while wind whips it aloft
and sends its arms flailing, reaching for flight.
Then, briefly, within, a memory of skin catches light.
A hint of arms once warmed, a gathered waist. once draped, a ghost of life it once embraced.