Picture courtesy of JP.

WRITTEN IN SNOW
                                         –by t

We extinguished two glasses of port,
drained the lamp,
transfigured from dressed to undressed.

Both times were revelatory.
The way you spoke then did not speak:
everything was newly sparse–
more new than sparse.

I do not remember it all, now,
what we said afterwards:
The virtues of simplified over traditional,
perhaps.

But we kept the blinds two-thirds drawn
and from your warm bed
we caught slivers of tree branches
in soft toques.

The snow had stopped and the road was icy
when we left. What took place already seemed hazy;
even your steadying arm around my shoulder
felt different.

Friendly people, we commented
on irrelevant things: the barber shop over there,
the dog park. Then I saw phrases fingered on cars,
unconvincingly hidden in snow. The calligrapher,
in haste, had chosen simplified.

It doesn’t matter, I guess.
New snow may fall, cover the slate.
And given time, all words melt.
–
–

–
–