Letter from the Ice Field, March
It is so cold I cannot feel my body.
When wind sharpens
and slides
its steel through my ear
a quake shifts inside me
like liquid
in the compass
I dropped into the sea.
I am afraid to fall that way,
as a weight
from a hand
into some bottomless
country of water.
Once, I hoped we became
more than an aperture.
Once God
was my anchor
in the nickering sea.
Love was mine
in the falling one.
until I reach, again,
the stone house
with a moss floor.
A vine of sunlight
grows at its center.
Where you would have been standing.
Where I am parted.