In those days the weather was jealous
and would turn up at her house just to see
what its cold winds could make of her face.
At her door she would be seen often
speaking to each of the seasons in turn,
though with a marked preference
(as many observed, and reported)
which always stayed longest
and left behind fading signs
of its tenure aboveground.
Who among us up here
wouldn’t want his love, her love
to carry a trace that clear, that
cold, stoic and austere, withdrawing
to regain itself, then resurging?
What I wouldn’t do
or undo (winter whispered
in a voice akin to mine) to see
one more time what my touch
might make of your face.