Pocket

The wind presses against my cheek
with its cold, flat blade. It feels good;
I'm stifling in my clothes, overstuffed 
and bundled much too tightly.
The sky is ice white, the sun flat and blinding.
It's so quiet that every ordinary sound
seems to intrude like footsteps 
outside a sacristy. 
It's a day for watercolor washes, 
not words; for soft-focus photographs,
for the gentle interrogation of hands
silently questioning the shadows 
of one another's bodies, growing familiar 
with the slopes and crevices,
tobogganing along the crests and gulleys,
seeking out the warm places in which
to curl up for the remainder of the winter.