Seated on flagstones that trap cold
in dovetails of cement, you rub oil
into the braid of reins, smoothe
parched cracks, and rasp the rust from bridles
I could lie back on the woodchest, try to keep you
in the damp and rotting mud-room by the lean-to.
Forget the dead and discontented winter,
close the orange curtain, bolt the plank door
to the attack of wind and stay with me --
between the stoveís thick smoke and fresh leather
tack -- stay --in the green heat of a kindling blaze
and the awkward angle of noon light.
Your outline fades in falling snow like breath on glass
Once again Iíve left the moment numb upon my tongue.
© Christina Salme Ruiz