there's no snow laying out its hard breath
against the ground, but the bones of statues
are shivering in their sheathes. the statues ache
like stones, constantly sinking
into the earth. their empathy
is knotted around gravity, and they groan in orbit.
but the earth is always pushing back,
and constant rejection blunts their features.

they had hoped that carving themselves
from granite would grant them protection.
but their hard limbs are brittle,
and each year cripples them a little more.
until the day comes that they are piles
of dust in the dry grass,
their bones keep on shivering feverishly.