IN THE LAURENTIANS
Snow—and hush of winter;
the moon’s a silver slipper in the sky,
and the stars—blinking bits of glass
frozen in our eyes.
We have our toboggan,
our mittens, jackets, hats—we have our hearts.
What’s fur between the two of us?
What is it that hurts?
We work our way over
the edge and drop, eyes blurring in the wind.
Eyes blurring, flying down the night
into the last turn.
Fifty odd years ago…
Ice shags the firs tonight. And there’s the moon.
I call your room and you answer,
still on the wing. Still holding on.
And now you’re gone.