It was the time of cold.
The water from the sky ran black like inky blood
and the tree in the dark storm was ripe for burning,
solitary acolyte in a serpentine ceremony of snow.
You kissed my summer dry palms
just before you ran to your winter white pack
far off along the indigo rim of night.
I heard the howling begin
without me. I pulled in the last syllable of stone,
and stripped to bare words. A single step danced me
from maenad to anchoress, peering through the squint
at your unconsecrated communion.
Submitted for the Monday January 10 Prompt at Big Tent Poetry, which was to utilize alliteration by choosing a letter, writing a word list, and using the ideas it generated for subject with a word from it for the title.