I saw her glove in the snow
And I thought about it for nearly
An hour, until my boots were covered
In freshly fallen snow. I had no idea
How deep it was at this point,
But only birds were moving freely,
And there were no birds.
I was up to my ankles, my knees,
And still the light was so delicate
And harmonious that it seemed a tragedy
To move. Tragicomedy, I corrected
My posture to embrace another bale
Of the white stuff that everyone loves
And hates. Soon, I was sure,
I would be just like her – but would that
Be so bad? She had been taken
By the scene and stopped to stand,
And been buried up to the glove.
Now I was going where she was.
I felt like a child going to bed;
I felt free with possibility.
Snowing as it was, a winter that could
Last and last, like nothing else seems to.
I extended my hand and poised my glove
So that I may, when the time
Strikes, pat the snow
On the preverbal backside,
Calling it my true love.