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We met in Winter,
I should have realized
the foreboding,
seen the long cold stretches of snow
between us,
but you gave me a snow flake
shaped like a rose
and I gave you my coat and scarf.
But before I could take your hand
and walk with you
the snow engulfed your face
like angry white bees,
and I could no longer hold you.
I made angels in the bitter white,
seeking holy miracles,
but no angels appeared to save us,
and the barren trees seemed to sway
with disdain.
When the storm passed
and the sun rose
distant but gleaming,
I dug furiously, hopeful that the sun's return had saved you
not hearing the winds whisper of your early departure.
You were gone.
The only remains
a coat and a scarf
and the memories of
my snow man.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts