My waist pries from your window
sad-colored at the sad streets below.
I dont want to write of winter-
I tire of the metaphors stuck
with no coat or scarf or gloves
to warm the cold- cold- cold.

You are everything delicate
about the ground, you bend to
catch me, a falling slip
from milk-white skies.
But, Our winter dies its earth,
melts us in my palm.
And, I hate to sleep alone--
in a bed so cold- cold- cold

I have noticed before,
but never made the connection,
how I wash your dirty clothes,
try to turn them white
but I can never get them clean
in water so cold- cold- cold.

You smile, a smile
that will be lost in the morning- knowing.
From your window I fly,
an open-mouthed snowflake- knowing
of our cold- cold- cold

I meet the sad streets below,
and away from you I walk
in the cold- cold- cold.

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