How many times did you type, "I send
my love on the wind." Now with your December trip
half over and the dark mornings starting to end,
I am a prisoner in expectation's grip
and live in the trackless snowfall of this page.
Counting the days, I listen for the wind
and grow soulful. My mind has become a stage
on which your absence plays its violin.
Can continents rob us of our voices and contrive
so much silence after so much talk? The birds,
too, are quiet now. Yet my mind is alive
with conversations: I am saving all my words.
They will blizzard in our joyful atmospheres
when we embrace. And the wind will howl in our ears.