The Bear - final draft

The Bear

My sweet, the bear
In these leaves, the myriad for lack of
words
Gone with the trees and come
my bear this snowy night.
But who slithers in these woods?
Longing to writhe on its belly is not
my bear
As the mist begins to haunt the sky
mine lies under the shadows – entranced in the obscurity of
dusk.
But who has the key to
this map and its plethora of colors?
What serpent made this path for my bear to follow?
His blackberry fur shivering in
the wind
In
the gloom, he dances and beckons me with bottomless inviting
eyes – black as the bear
He clenches as his search continues
in panic
The trees palter to him with looming, insincere
sways
Their nonchalance balloons in his wooly face
as his fury grows.
He ascends to the zenith to smell the air for a
trace of something – anything.
He finds me there watching and waiting to
touch his nose
shivering.