Back then I had the snow of her voice
Falling into my hair.
I heard her call me. My name an old gate
Grating the cold bearing in its swing,
Pushing at the drifts—
When I follow this thought, alone
Out to the moonlit fields, bright frosted stubble
All that cold, ancient music
Paused above me—
Silent, the expanse of it,
All of her untitled poetry—
What could I have wanted?
What could I have wanted, then?