January was Grandmother’s purse:
strawberry bonbons and the twenty 
later slipped into my palm swimming 
in its lipstick-stained lining. That is to say, 
winter was filled with unexpected delights.

Father calls more. Asks if there is heat 
in my new apartment, if I am warm. 
The breakup does not kill me. 
Local schools close for the first snowfall
before any determined flake can descend, a blind trust
in the forecast, how children believe in Santa 
or how the audience buys an actor’s performance 
or how I loved and loved and loved you.

And it is when I am here, perched
on the cottoned gingham of my armchair
to observe the front lawn with quiet intensity,
(as if a teaspoon were under my pillow, 
the tag of my pajama top tickling my throat)
that I see myself through your eyes—the snow 
that will melt away at the first sight of sun—
while you, my ever-present memory, are the indomitable
grass blades piercing through the glistening white, demanding
to be seen, even when years will have passed by, 
even now.

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