After the Storm
You stop the car
along the frozen Scioto
and point to deer tracks
on the ice. I imagine a timid doe
coaxed across the brittle river
by her partner, in naked,
fragile love. Alone,
in the exposition of cold,
we are Lara and Zhivago,
enveloped by lust and white,
on a silent ride to Varykino.
Reins lace your gloved fingers,
my hands; all of me in your pocket.
We thrust, slow, unable to see past
the crosshatch of blue ash
and sycamore, catalysts for hope,
and wonder how this flux
can remain without time, unbodied,
this fresh, uncorrupted rush,
the calling card of winter.
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 50