This is winter’s hour: a frozen moon
withdraws into a frozen sky. Thin aisles
of snow drift like ash, a white woven
shawl falls across your shoulders. Your smile
slowly fades in the soft neon light of the T.V.
recently turned off. This is the liquid hour.
Memories surge and recede, a shallow stream
disappearing among stones. A pale flower
once open to the sun now folds into
itself. This is the hour of dreams. The play
of your hair across my lips slips through
my mouth its texture lingers these many days.
The trace of your fingers slips through my hand
in this silent empty hour of snow and sand.