I.

The fair snow luring this earth to sleep
neither brightens nor heightens
that squat, muffled sky yet somehow
you do, you do.

II.

Most importantly, light.

In winter it coils against the other
side of noon and we love slow
on a sofa bed, we clutch on a kitchen chair.
You sing fragments of songs like
slivers of colored light, patches
of stained glass and

my god, your eyes are blue sun
on mountain stream,
lighthouses wrapped

in a wave.

III.

Somehow it all depends
on the distance from the ground.

In winter we grow
an onion on the windowsill,
we grow it clean and green,
we mark its shoot
to the sky.

A decade ago I was
flying the Alps, nose
pressing the glass,
eyes watering
from the first glimpse
of mountaintop. This is
how I feel, this is how I reel

when I look at you.

04/01/2007

Posted on 05/17/2007
Copyright © 2024 Ariane Scott