“winter”
If there was no such thing as death
and everything that is beautiful is immortal,
then the wind must be a virgin,
whose soft cunning hands
I knew so well
then the snow is the wind in
a white dress,
who I have met once
she gave me a white rose
and took my hand
lead me deeper into the drifts
then I lost myself in the swellings
and fallings of her dress
until the snow erased every footprint I laid
as I laid them
and the only person in sight
was wearing only white
there was no whisper
from that radiant lady
whose hands knew me
as if I were an idea
rather than a person
to know; then maybe
awakening, in spring
when the wind again is colorless
wearing skin, wearing nudity
like garments
when she materializes
this garden will only
compliment
her lean limbs,
her liquid thighs
her icy eyes-
which remind me of
being lost; with
a single white flower in my hand
and a white
lady
to follow
and perhaps when I wake
from this winter bed
I will still have
my lady’s rose
and I will be wearing her dress
winter
