Snow down to four thousand feet tonight.
Ice all over, and soon.
“It’s winter,” he says. “Deal.” And we cut cards and keep
score. Someone is always cheating, it seems.
Set free in the snow, intentions might be more pure,
though no less dangerous.
And we stalk along through the unsaid. When all is left
unsaid, undone: It will be 20 degrees tonight.
A challenge. “See to it that the wood is laid in, and the light
will shine in the dark past midnight.”
“Yeah, right.” Words are never inadequate to the case, only
the desire. “Can’t we once have everything right again?”
In the end, someone yields, rises. Listen: The shuffle
to the door, the rattle of curtains drawn, the scrape of a chair.
It's winter, and no matter how cozy the night, sometimes
hearts just grow colder. And you deal.
