Immobile
Chin tucked
Against the winter cold
I stand as ever
Common as the wind ridge
On the snowfield  
It is late
Evening is near
And my breath shallows
Oh, to be subsumed by the warmth
If only once
To spin dizzily and happily ‘round
In the bright circle
So that I may
At last
Exhale.

Vividly coloured

straw flowers in the snowfield --


but they do not smell.

You are the dying summer
A burning August scorching the color into autumn.
You are San Francisco rain.
You are what it feels like to walk alone in a melting snowfield
And let the water soak through your worn winter boots.
You are alpenglow.
You soften the sharp metallic edges of a city bursting with cutting loneliness.
You are the first ambrosial sip of green tea after a 14-hour day.
You are silk sheets
And the taste of dark chocolate
And young moonlight.
You are warm eyes flecked with liquid gold.
You are the innocent wonder of the first snowfall
And the ancient silence of redwoods.
You are the heartbeat that drives the tide.
You are the wind fattening white sails
You are so beautiful.
You are the exquisite pain of loss.
You are a howl.
You are silence.
You are a kiss hello and a kiss goodbye.
You are long, reckless highway drives at ninety.
You are red
You are oceans of blue.
You are the arms at the airport that pick me up and spin me around.
You are the final wish.

I wake to bright sunshine
streaming in at the windows,
and look out, it seems, on a vast snowfield,
a white plain with rounded hillocks
reflecting the brilliance of the light,
extending to the furthest horizon.

A few minutes,
and the snowfield is invisible.
Everything outside is invisible
but the dampness on the windows,
and an all-pervading fog,
shutting me, claustrophobic, inside.

Soon the fog too is gone,
and now a steady drizzle
beats on the glass.
I have to leave the warmth inside,
descend the steps
to the grey gloom
of an English morning.

But looking up, I know
that the clouds that cover the sky,
darken the earth,
are mere vapour,
and above them the sun still shines.