The cold has come. It presses down on my covers
and haunts my sleep. I dream of Greenland
and of finding meteorites that melt deep holes in the snow.
The northern lights are dancing.
The cold has come. There is rain inside my window
weeping down the pane. My eyes are summer glass
and he is deep winter so I understand the condensation
because I have felt it, too.
The cold has come. If my heart were a bird
it would flutter red against snowdrifts in crippled
useless motions, too broken to fly. Small things die easily
when harshly exposed.