Nothing moved, not the leafless branches 
of the red maple nor light from the street lamp. 
Everything froze, and in that no time, 
I stepped past your shadow as it clung 
to the wall. Then everything moved again, 
clock hands spinning wildly, crows pecking 
at the grass between patches of dirty snow, 
the mail truck weaving slowly up the hill. 
It was nearly dinner time.
I could hear pots and pans singing merrily 
on the stove. And there you were, 
juggling knives, spoons and serving plates,
your fine wrists snapping each item into the air 
like a practiced diva, a circus wonder, 
there in our kitchen, with its luscious scents of food.
                        

I pushed open the back door, stepped out into the cold
There was the moon and a sprinkling of icy stars.
You followed, crunching through the snow 
in your new black boots. Our neighbor’s dog whined 
a little, then settled down to sleep. We walked past 
the river birch, past the little stand of pines. 
Maybe we were wondering what was buried there,
beside the pond. Maybe we were making sure
the roof would hold. These small adventures
never fail to mystify, why we find ourselves 
in such odd places. Always in the wind.,
often in the snow or rain. How do we stay so silent 
in the dark, we who love to talk, who flap our hands 
like enormous tongues as words tumble from our frozen lips?