It's snowing and all I can think of
are leaves to wrap your memory,
leaves pungent as tea,
green curls alive
with the promise of fire,
shutes like fingers
to play a tap on your skin.
The snow is wet like your eyes at parting,
cold as the promise of a winter dawn
wet again as city-streets
I must tread to make a living,
the flask of wine
pressed to my lips.
On the winter landscape all
I see is the ghost white of sheets,
our sheets wrapped to keep breath warm
the log cannisters of our bed
a heady raft upon which to travel
to burn up an ocean of delight.