this is the fourth year
cold sucks chlorophyl from our trees
red faces, yellow leaves
falling brown gusts that roll us up
in snow; we put on our coats
ready for the long haul.
your mouth is a beauty-dream
ethereal, responsive, sometimes mean
an echo chamber for all of the sacrificial things
winter is when the ground has mouths
inhaling all of the moisture to its gob
swallowing expansive, frozen gusts
that we might purify and sip
from our parlours on our fireside dates;
the snow is just
tea waiting to happen.
your eyes are disbelief.
i look at you and think of me.
