north of it

drifted into form 

a pile of thought like snowflakes

that the cold crafted

with her hard fists
further and further 

into our minds

like blood 

like a golden glove

like a thing that we were given and never wanted.

here 

on the wings of the western

winds 

she wanders into visions;

rusty old vehicles

in vast heaps,
the wastelands of 

a field north of the river's bending.

those tired and retired tools

left behind from forgotten works 

done by dry and calloused hands

with weary faces 

on bitter and miserable days

like this one.