A Winter Memory
Late January
His wandering eye
roams me like an intrigued
stranger, amused and
aloof – urbane in a
farmtown. I pull back
my hair and – shoulders
straight as the lone white
birch pensive near the
barn – rashly, staunchly
warrant his investigation.
My shadow lies, its
edges unwavering.
If cut, would this perfect
indigo reflection, this
silhouettemystery, be
a colder, purely violet me?
Our conversation
swerves like the ski tracks
that wind their slender,
symmetrical, iceblue
way down, out of sight –
now – lost to the pines.
Lany