Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash
A swift swirl of crispy air
Towards a setting milky sun
Levitates earthly crimson hearts
and golden smiles
My abuela’s love was vibrant, intense
When she still drew breath
“Mi Chanito”, she would call me
A welcome into a hearth
With a scent of apple and cinnamon
Her embrace full of warmth
A fireplace in a world
That grows cold
The northern wind comes
Biting, chilling, burning
Skin piercing
Tearing—
Trees shrivel in fear
The branches turn black
One sunset after the next
Heat more sparse
Her light, leaving
Red and golden essence
Becoming memory
Frost enters
Takes her place.
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