The snow will be melting soon.
Then it will be gone.
You and I will be different
after the snow is gone.
And we will not have walked upon
the snow together,
hand in hand
after the snow is gone.
Tag: winter
But the winter won’t kill you.
Winter is life.
You’re dead.
Your crystalline face
buried deep in the soil of my soul.
What is the soul,
but everything remembering everything?
Hark here old druids.
Hark here, let it be known.
I kissed you under a street lamp
in the Upper East Side
around midnight,
got busy with my hands
in your tight hot pink panties.
The aristocrats dreamed.
We kissed in a field in Texas.
Always passionate kisses in the throws of sex.
I was 26 years old when I ran down
the streets of New York City
in my hiking boots
at a six-minute mile pace
with her by my side,
months before
you and I would meet each other.
Who is she?
Who are you?
What is this?
It’s in the soil.
I don’t think you’re in the City anymore.
You may be in Vermont, or that could be
our ghost.
But the winter won’t kill you.
Nothing will.
Hark here old druids,
let it be known.
I trust when the autumn
goes away
with
your feelings
my feelings
past the Italian bakery
the pets in windows
the warmth in coats
and scarves on cold Sunday mornings
when your eyes like
crystals
under the million miles of sun
I see the blue
the new civilizations
the new ways of living
the clean clean consoles
and the ambient white light
I trust the past has melted
I sit in the den
The brush fields of the south
now the purgatory of
northern cities
and messenger messenger
satellites
turning high above
from Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)
We received clothing from a factory.
It was our first winter.
We ate meat out of cans.
It had all come from so far away.
Who knew about this technology?
Who knew anything anymore?
Tomorrow we set out across the plains
to find our next employer.
Our first winter has come to an end.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 