To Michele
Time streams
more slowly in the winter, and light
reflected off snow
bends lazily around shadows;
our reflections are mirrored in the white
light and our thoughts, like our breath,
hang limply in the air,
and dissipate into mist.
Who is sure of anything on a frigid winter day?
Who is sure what is meant
by our last thought which hung
transparent, briefly before us
before meeting its ephemeral fate?
What is Bliss but
light and time and the cold
and a frozen memory of you
beside me.
I was really good when I was young.
NOT part of the poem!
I wish we had made love that night.
I have since become much less the gentleman
and more the cavalier…
Would one night now make up
for a missed life with you?
Would your lips draw my blood
dead pooled in my heart
to my extremities…
would I feel again as I then did
flush with passion and love,
eternally immortal?
Not part of the poem!
This is not words or cadence or meter
Nor your flesh or mine
This is a thought
Hung cold in frigid air
And lost to time.