In May the world renews itself.
You mistake those ghosts again
for your own resemblance.
Wildflowers in the hills smell like coming home.
Daylight hides the wind.
Leaves cover all the scars
of winter so you hardly remember
the way it was before.
Your own scars are like that,
secrets concealed by the season’s end.
You and the birds forget the older songs,
how autumn sombers like an icy drum,
how we hurt each other suddenly
like the first winter storm
down from the mountain
to cover everything
in chorus after chorus
of that all-encompassing white.
Impossible the World
On the edge of our rescued shore
the snow sleeps in black and white.
It wants to dream simplicity.
The sun squints behind clouds,
enough to stare into our retinas.
It knows the truth before we blind.
Next to the water, an empty bench.
Once I took all the colors
I felt while kissing you
and released them to the wind.
I waited the night.
I listened for their sounds.
What came back was deeper,
impossible, the world.
Aden Thomas grew up in central Wyoming. His work has been featured in The Kentucky Review, The Inflectionist Review, and Up The Staircase Quarterly. He lives southeast of Jackson Hole and lets his dog read all rejection slips.