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City Snowscape (Remembered)

That winter had to be
the coldest up north
we’d lived together,
the only winter
I could talk you
into moving home
with me to Georgia.

You miss it now,
your city apartment,
with the pocket doors
(frosted flowered glass)
and oak double shutters
(always open to steal the light)
and art, grown local
(like peaches here)
and hung on every wall.

You miss it now,
the mystical moments
when frosty white flakes
drop a clean
wash of sparkle
across the spot-color,
gray-tone, never-stop city.

You miss it now
on this sticky heavy day
when peaches aren’t in season.
I sip tea (iced) with you
on the sunporch that
became your study.
I listen to you read
what you just wrote
and in the next moment
my heart and me skip up
three flights of stairs to you,
smiling, waiting at the open door
to pull me close and point out
the snowflake (unmelted)
in my hair; it was the exact shape
of that fleck of green
in my right (blue) eye.

(I miss it too.)

Posted 08/19/10
First appeared at SPARK Round 7 (http://www.getsparked.org); written in response to a photograph by Bridget Fahey O'Brien.
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