The snow has fasted all winter.
The cabinís nonperishable stock
Waits, and is aware of its waiting.
The life of the wind is a pane
On the second floor rattling.
You and I should be in that bed
These long years left still made,
Grudgingly allotted our warmth, listening
As that pane says I give back.
Our thoughts should be
Spring and the rounding of the year.
But beyond the cabin the gaping snow
Holds one set of footprints,
Themselves an axis
Around which the world might turn.
No matter the beauty or quiet
Or wind: the footprints
Hold our meaningless watching. Imagine
Just such a cabin;
Imagine days with the cold
Hard enough to sense itself and feel itself
And have wants of its own,
And the two of us wanting back.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010