it starts as the first day of our first year ends:
the sun's fading rays reach out
to touch each snowflake
       (like lazy sundays
      baby come back to bed)
before it hits the ground,
or the dog's nose,
or the very tip of tongue and fingers,
pulsing magnets for the tiny flakes,
drawing them in.

she stands on the cracked bottom step of our sinking porch,
arms and mouth open,
stockpiling snowflakes
she'll want to save in a jar on our windowsill
       (like catching fireflies
      there's one there)
though they'll melt as soon as she seals the lid.

her hands will be December-morning-cold
when she presses them into the spaces
between my top and bottoms,
against the skin of my hips,
made for her hands alone,
but her breath will be July-afternoon-hot
against my chin
when she leans in to kiss me,
a snowflake and her words caught between our lips
      (it's snowing)