WATERMARK

 
Spring is reluctant. She keeps
making promises, then taking
them back. Snow. More snow.
Snow again. And you, so far . . .

What would I want from you
if you came to me now?
To lie together, comforted
by feathers. To speak quietly

into the long silence. If you
came to me, I would lay out
the silk bedcover, the mirrored
cloth, the silver bowl. Now, snow.

 

[Original below the cut]

Spring is reluctant. She keeps
making promises, then  rescinding
them. Snow. More snow. Snow
again. And you, so far . . .

What would I want from you
if you came to me now?
To lie together, comforted
by feathers. To speak quietly

into the long silence. If you
came to me now, I would lay out
the silk bedcover, the mirrored
cloth, the silver bowl. Now, snow.