i would have shown you the meadow today;
frost turned the grass to wastes of grey

made its blades stand sentinel and straight,
made the lock stick on the kissing gate

made the sky melt in a sea of pink
and gentle blue, that made me think

of skin pigment and childhood sleep;
of circles rippling on a creek;

even the oxbow lake froze, hard,
a sheen of broken mirror shard;

even the swans seemed confused,
seem to lose

that elegance of the neck, the spine-

the chapel bells chimed nine

as i left; i thought perhaps
their hands had frozen over, time elapsed;

i would have shown you this, and more;
i would have, but i did not, for

it was only the care of a winter day,
yes; only care of winter; only wastes of grey.