There are lovers whose arms are

Mornings coated with gay songs,

The splendour of laughing colours,

Toasted slices clad in melting butters,

Trays crowded with cakes and creams

Extra sugars drowning in teacups,

Scents from the pores of blushing roses,

Glowing leaves of pregnant trees,

And pleasures riding the back of a fresh breeze.

Then other lovers, whose arms are

The shortest days and longest nights,

And foggy windows blurring the obvious.

Hands wearing gloves of the kind of frost

Too thick to rub the skin of a desperate lover,

Veins choking with solid rivers,

That never reach icy seas of a numb breast.

Mouths full of blizzards stuck between the teeth

Shivering kisses from the cracks of frigid lips.

There’s a snowstorm blasting through the door,

Lend a coat for my poor heart,

My lover must be home.