i.
there is a cold, against which
i have no defenses
an early-morning, black
night, kind of cold when
the air is so still, as if the
wind itself was too cold
to blow, ice crystals
float suspended in the air
brightly reflecting my car's
headlight beams, twin
seekers of the way ahead

ii.
you slipped out of bed
trying not to wake me
i lay wondering if you
acted from courtesy or
embarrassment

iii.
i sit in the coffee bar
in town watching you
work, maybe the way
you see without looking
attracted me to you in
the first place, maybe
you just make a good
cup of coffee, but, could
be that i have always
had a thing for
     hippie chicks

iv.
as i leave, you walk to the
kitchen without saying
goodbye, guess i will
have to find a new place
     to write

v.
i walk back out into
the still cold morning
perhaps the cold is not
the predator from whom
i require a defense
     after all

have you
     somehow
filled the night
with new
     stars
and beckoned me
to stand under
winter's sky
and watch them
dance to your
secret tune?

i send my dreams
     to you
during the night

i wake you at odd hours
i trace my love poems
on your naked belly

with my fingertips
my gentle touch
arouses you in your

     sleep
wakes you across
time and distance

fills you with both
promise and desire
made whole and

     separate

i woke last night
listened for some sound
that might have disturbed
     my sleep
the moon hangs low
over the treeline, just
     past full,
moonlight floods,
reflected by winter's
snows, to light the
house with a silver,
        incandescence

i step down the
stairs and stand at
the picture window
overlooking the
     gardens
wrapped against mid-winter,
nighttime chills i see that,
    overnight
the pane has been lined with
     frost
and i know

reaching to the pane,
the frost is most excellently
cold, and i come alive,
burning with
     desire
frost melting beneath my
         fingertips

for i know, now, whose
distant thoughts have
     sought mine
to wake me
at this new and
     wondrous
hour of the morning

looking out the
     window
the garden rests,
deep in snow, with
bits of straw poking through
and burlap wrapped
         shrubs

imagination brings forth
a summer's growth of
Victorian roses
for my distant love
as she thinks
         of me

here, burgundy, to say
she is beautiful to me;
there, the yellow of
joy and friendship;
next to a pink,
a wild rose bush,
the color of gratitude
     and grace;
and, of course, the
     red,
for passion, standing with the
white rose, the mix which
conveys
             unity

promises kept
               alone
night approaches
     as though
treading on soft pine needles
an invisible nature
          without order
     or time
propelling before itself all things
          intimate and benign
meaningless, a hide and seek game played
               alone

you told me
     that you
had a ***** loose
     it took me a long
time to realize that
you keep most of them
     in jars,
lined up in the
garage, above the tool bench
sorted by size,
rather than
     function