your hands, your car
breathing out heated gases.
my watch ran faster,
the frigid outside air making the spring tenser.
I saw your spirit streaming from your lips,
and then disappeared, inspiration slipping away to
the ether on that cold, cold morning.
Your warmth for me was visible
as a touch of rouge on your cheeks,
made so much more inviting in its framing
of your smooth wintery teeth.
I balanced the fruit on my palm,
holding it out like a snack for a passing squirrel,
one for you.
We peeled our oranges in silence,
looking so brilliant in contrast to winter's gray.
From afar, we could have been mistaken
making fire in our hands.
Snow blew in sideways, filling the ground
to the neck of a desperate desert flower, petals
a chrome yellow, twitching in a frenzy, flailing
to remove a fateful white cloak.
Miniature flakes, distinguishable from ashes
only by their brevity,
left darker green patterns behind, melting into the sleeve
of your winter coat.
The zipping sound of rayon against rayon
and your breath (with occasional sniffles)
was a most graceful and reassuring
flash of life through the sound of wind
and percussive flakes
crashing against my hat.
the blue from your mercury-argon lamp.
the snow made electric in fluorescent
flickers because of your swinging, singing arms.
A context-free line from a poem called My
Indigo circled through my thoughts as we watched
circling overhead stars.
I tried to recall the star called the eye of the dog,
the brightest save one, as our mild banter about
the more romantic aspects of freezing to death together
sent us rolling through the snow angels from hours before;
"What is its name?"
[--My Indigo, Li-Young Lee]
reflections of heaven in your eyes.
i faced the sunrise,
you faced me.
that moment clarified the tendency
to proclaim violet a royal hue.
could not protect us