I listen to you explain the difference
between a right brain thought and a left.
I am distracted by the smell
of cold on your face.
I lick it away like a child
with an ice cream cone
sticky fingers and sweet tongue.

Aware that I have been here before
I pause in your words.
I have slept in this flesh,
dreamed these winter bones.

Waking in the darkness between us
I hear frost sweeping the porch,
edging toward the morning.
I reach for your hand.

What, you whisper, voice hoarse with dream.
My lips, swollen with you, cold,
are silent.

©2006, Joyce Wakefield

Joyce Wakefield is the Columns Copy Editor of Moondance & a member of our About Poetry Forum whose work has represented us in the InterBoard Poetry Competition. She has published two poetry chapbooks, sold several short stories, and completed a full length book of poetry.

Winter Poems collection > table of contents