He
holds out his hand
like
the calm
and
warm centre of a winter
storm
(a storm that made trees fall)
and
we have to move
to
escape the dust
(he
was fond of that dust,
though,
and, with my hand
in
his we move
slowly
and calmly
through
the leaves and branches that litter the house after that tree-fall
last
winter.)
And
winter's
fading
light, like dust,
over
the house falls
and
still gripping my hand
he
closes his eyes, calm.
And
I rock my body: “Don't move”
he
says, “don't. Don't move
a
muscle. The winter's
calm
is
all I can bear and the dust
is
soft and my hands
are
dry and where were we last fall?”
I
say: Fall?
Autumn,
surely, since you moved
and
he lets go of my hand
offended.
“The winters
are
cold here,” he says. “And so are you and the dust,
like
snow,” he says, “is anything but calm.”
I
close my eyes and to keep him calm
I
say: Okay. Okay. Fall.
Fall
and my love, like dust,
moves,
and
my heart, like winter,
cold.
I look at my hand,
no
longer in his and I move from the dust
that
fell in the winter, after the tree-fall
and no hand holds mine and I am
calm.
