Fretting on Nothing

her sweater blossoms
into a thousand loose threads,
like the thoughts of a Catholic priest
during Ramadan.

and while God eludes us
who are unsure of His existence,
we find solace in understanding
the fragrant noise of snow on open ground.

like the fire of weakness
we blaze a trail through fields of wheat
and feel the heels of our feet
toughen over tiny pebbles.

the faded gold of autumn leaves

fades as the cold blankets the north,
our hands tired of fighting - 

so we hibernate, while the rain and snow
march east.