

Rough Winter Poetry
I sent my words off to a friend yesterday, & he is still inclined
to talk to me.
Though the tea is steep & the fire is wisdom-wide. We bank
& bunker beneath a roof.
We snuggle & sip & stir.
Stir deeply & slowly & always
with a whisper of honeyed cream.
We stir when it needs it. We stir when we like
circles. We stir when our boots go on & the road is
snow behind & beneath & before us.
It snowed before there were
us. It snows now.
Time is a bay leaf in a bowlful of borscht, waiting
to burst on a spoon's journey
to our tongues.
Shared dreams are
of Vancouver. A name unnoticed
& unrealized by us for so
many years.
We've had our share
of dreams, under
the covers, far from the snow.
We've made out in a snow
bank when love was
young.
We've made it
over a snow hill in our beige
car tonight.
If only I had his way
with words. I would sing to you more
sweetly. I would sing to you like kettle
corn popping.
Ripping at the kernel.
Chomping at my
bit these days. My tongue sore
& scalded by hot
cocoa.
My lips chapping on the outside
of my words.
Splitting in the middle, every other winter
it seems.
But this winter there is balm. This winter
there is milk & honey lotion. This winter there is
your warm palm pressed against the cold
steering wheel & later
my face.
As if, in the if, of if my heart were to break, there would be
you peering into the microwave prepared
to not only enjoy it but also to make me glad
it did.
Broken, from so much
warm-driftiness in such a drafty-dark
world.
A cold stone
put into an oven that is already up
to temp.
Your temples spell the spilling
of my words.
Daydreamed worlds become holy
from my musky mouth upon
your ears.
It has been so long since I brewed
this tea. It has been so long
silence grew within me.
So long silence,
now. Go the ways of longing
for my lover's aura & kiss.
Just so. I felt
the evening draw
its curtains just now.
I felt the sheepskin
on my shins. I felt the love
seat surrounding us. I felt how just
then we said everything in one laugh.
How the yogurt melts into
the beets. How the fresh dill fanned
its feathers round my fingers an hour
ago.
This borscht is full of fringe & lace & root.
With these bellies full we go on more.
The pull of the impolite
wind can't take
the woolen mittens away.
Tonight the wind is
full of crisp. Tonight
the fire will crack
the logs. Tonight there
will be an opening.
Tonight we spill.