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| Hoarfrost at sunrise |
In a windless, single-digit sunrise
we walked the field in snowshoes
in the shadow of the earth,
hurtling through space,
first tracks acoss an unbroken plain,
our words before us, our breath entwined,
far-flung.
And later, our captured sun
ticking in the stove, our jeans
hung up and steaming,
hot coffee in our hands,
with our music and our books,
with each other, we were happy,
we were ample, we were slung.
Ten winters hence, in my remove
and waiting for vaccine,
I've resisted sentiment,
content with solos and the company
of lines— that which seems enough
has been enough, almost ample— oh,
but how I miss the words that went unsung.
