Knee-high, no, thigh-high,
the kind that packed thick, defied shovels.
The roads were closed so we walked,
do you remember?
The gentle crunch under our boots,
your biker jacket with twilights last gleaming
emblazoned on the back, the town draped
in fairy lights, a scene by Currier and Ives.
Couples in plaid jackets
swayed by us, swigging Coors from long-necked bottles
and singing. It was New Year’s Eve.
Everything seemed to stop.
I felt weightless, the snow could pillow me,
your hand was ice inside my own,
your words made clouds in the air.
You hated those neat houses submerged, black ice
that slithered under your feet, feeling that the snow
could bury you alive, like the missing climbers
whose bodies eventually rose from the thaw
as if asleep. You are cloudy from your meds
and when you turn to me, you don’t know
who I am. Remember the snow?
We lay on our backs and made angels.
I wanted you to see the shimmering
crystals, the tunnel of jewels—
you saw nothing but white.