I think I’d like to lay with you in the blue-gray shadows
thrown by the cold, barren winter moon.
We can pretend the stars are fireflies, stuck in a stasis of unblinking
flight by a cryogenic freeze
brought on by this northern clime and axial tilt of our homeworld. Of course,
we’d have to don suits of nylon swishiness
to shield our limbs from the white perfection of the snow’s teeth;
our suits will morph the biting cold into downy
beds upon the ground.
Let the northern latitudes be capped in silent frost!
Silent nights are an eerie respite from summer sounds. I’ll trade
cricket song for the crack and chirp of icy branches,
Hold my hand now and we’ll watch those
six-month stars spin out across the sky. As I’ve traced the last
constellation I’ll be ready for warmth to rise as those strange
hieroglyphs set in favor of the next round.
Our puffs of breath will do for nets,
as we pursue our signs in the sky and continue this crazy earthbound ride.