Through the kitchen window, I watch you
shoveling what the plow left. You are talking
to the neighbour and I realize that she is stunning.
But then, we don’t have the same taste, do we?
You are smiling and stopping to look at her. The light
in your eyes leaves the world, backlit. The fairness
of your skin, your temperament. The fullness of your
sleeves, heavy snow and hearts and other cold things
scooped out from the bank, tossed over your shoulder.
You take care of things. Make things fly.
When you come inside, leave her scraping,
there is something I want to show you.
