after the storm and the stillness that came before,
we make our way down to the river,
past the autumn burn pile and the first stirrings
of the birds in the apple tree—
he untangles himself from his winter woolens
and lopes ahead, having known too much
of paradise to resist cold’s threat,
his back a fevered kite
tearing down the pale field:
for each of his steps
two of my own, heavy
through the crisp lip of snow
as if a haul from some deep well,
and I wonder if it will always be this way,
he forging ahead as I lose sight in the gray tangle
of creeper and paper birch—
calling his name as if he were miles
away and not a few paces,
reckless in my panic
as I thrash through the brush,
afraid he will not wait,
afraid I will leave him, waiting
