A horse on the wall of their hotel room
carried her away to a place she’d always go,
and yet, had never been: to a boy,
entombed in falling snow, out in the moon-
light, throwing his voice against her
window, which glowed yellow in the night.
He sang out his life, lying
frozen against the earth: for her.
Thirty years later tears dropped
down her cheeks to the bedsheets
while her husband rested his hand on her
neck, her shoulder, her arm:
a stone feather. And snow tapped
silently against the window.