Northern Wind

Winter in the mild South—
A little frost shines on the grass,
Nothing like your country.

You came down from the snowy north
With white caught in your cuffs
To see what “winter” means here.

I am a lanky monk—
mostly elbows and loose sleeves.
A scarecrow with a begging bowl.

Walking too quickly,
My clothes caught the wind
And made me look even thinner.

Your laughter sang through the soft air
As you stepped into my small place,
Adorned in much of nothing.

Few cups.
An electric kettle.
A window that never quite closes.

You warmed up on the floor, unpacked
I tried to look calm—
My heart did not obey.

I began to daydream:
Our shoes together by the door,
Two cups instead of one,

A sleeve brushing mine
As we watched the snow,
Arms linked during walks,

Laughter that would last a lifetime.

But daydreams are light things.
A draft slips in,
And takes them away.

Now the kettle sings to an empty room.
The cold air slips in through the living room window,
Night rain falls, and I can only listen.

I sweep my steps,
Back and forth,
Back and forth—

But it cannot sweep my heart.
Again and again the broom knows its work.
I do not.

Your footsteps outside did not last.
One night of rain,
And they were gone.

A crow on the smallest bare branch
Looks down at me, as if to say,
“So? Still alive?”

Yes, still alive.
Still hearing your voice
In the pause between sounds.

I can only fold your name into the silence
Like a letter.
This one I do not send.

When the north wind visits this southern winter
It feels out of place—
And then it feels like you.