I have fallen in love again
the winter brought me here
on a boat of snow and slopes:

I can write again.

and the snow flakes
have become fat and wet
and press against my body
like the tongue of a lover

I went deep into the heart of the igloo
and there you were:
My pen. My paper. Heart into words.

I have fallen in love again.
Let me be the paper; and you the pen
Take me – I lie passive as the storm rages outside
Write me – I lay myself naked before you
You are the One
I am your Queen
and your Slave.

as the year decays around
and the rotting leaves and faded moss
are hammered by gusts of wind
nailed shut by the iron trees
sealed with frost

the worried squirrels are lost
and leap from the mourners
trying not to freeze.

But the dawn that breaks
over high mountains knows
where to go:
inwards; past the rocks, deep below
where the decay turns to earth
and in the earth seeds will grow
and the fragile beauty of the spring
takes its time, but all winter long
there it is, deep below, sweet-smelling, small,
an acorn, a baby worm, the mysterious seed
that promises a full-blown rose.

If you should find your way out of this town
think of me sometimes
when your bicycle reaches the crest of the hill
or when you sit by the fire telling your stories
or as you lift your eyes to the horizon of the desert,
set down your cup, pick up your bags,
and go on your way:
remember.

I never thought you’d really leave
I never realized there was so much attachment
to the past.
Or how strong was the rope pulling us apart.

Now there’s only the small town,
the cobble streets, the wise men,
and it’s time to rest.

Yes, it’s time to lie down
and gaze out of the window
and think of you again.

And we look at the same stars, the same moon;
and watch the same sun rise and set.
We’re standing on the same earth: two minds
four hands, four legs, and twenty toes
but one heart.
Yes, still one heart.

Night is the shipwreck
Your arms are the lifeboat
carrying me to safety
and shore

the night is purple with stars.

As we approach the shore
they cry out:
“Who is that?”

“My friend!” I shout.
“My friend, who saved me!”

“What a wonderful shipwreck!”
they shout back.

Even the bloodied sky flies
trying to get away
scratched by crimson leaves
hurled like rain to the hard ground
and bandaged in old gold and brown

Yes the sky is pierced by silver needles of the birch
White bark, white skin,
pinning the white snow onto the shocked earth

Which tries to be quiet and to hide
from the grief and tumult
of a long-awaited death

and the dreaded pain of rebirth.