my winter in montreal, a sestina

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.