I was once in love with the Spirit of Winter.
Long legs leading to long slender arms,
small hot center of a dying star
within the cold space of body,
a bare twig in one hand,
withered spring buds in the other.
I'm at my weakest in Summer, he said.
And he smiled, though warmed through like a stone,
those arms embracing the plants he cared for
with a touch not hot or cold, but like the air,
without them shrinking back from frost.
In Winter I could touch you only briefly
before the warm roots within me cooled.
You stood apart, head lifted to the passing of woodsmoke,
delicately stepping over Summer's bones.
You shook the snow off to no avail.
(In the style of Dorianne Laux)
Beautiful.
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