Poetry

The Courter

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He’s in the weight of the knocker
falling heavily against the door.
He’s in the gnarled groans of the oak
subtly losing strength.

He is the ache in the rooster’s throat;
still crowing the moon to sleep.
He is the echo in the heifer’s sighs;
tired of rude remarks and making milkshakes.

Just like the barn peels paint every time
the sun melts down its sides saying goodbye, he lingers his arrival
creating that dull ache inside of you
like the back of your eyes hurting
just before it rains.

Silently, he creeps in like snowflakes
kissing my cheeks and melting.
Just like their soft touch and fade
you don’t realize his whispers
cover the ground until
your eyes start to water.

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