Freed from the restraints of light,

we strode onto frozen lake,

my fear of falling through irrational

on a minus thirty-five evening.

 

Overzealous streetlights made

stars invisible, but on the ice

they created conversation

like our dreams about bears-

mine in a forest, green so easily forgotten

in these northern winters,

where the strongest hands still need

the strength of beaver pelt mittens.

Yours was a polar bear, too far south

to survive, even in minds occupied by snow.

 

When we emerged back to cleared road

and frosted telephone lines,

our faces red from a cold that makes 

wolves eat dogs, we continued on.

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