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Winter Love

Winter waking in the snow
muted silence, of the white
walls and ceiling of the room
light reflected through the iced
windows; I close my eyes and
picture the snow covering
walks and ways, wind blown
banks and drifts and plow piled
walls as high as the windshields.

Leaning back into the down mound
of pillow, my brain plays a litany
of precautions: morning meds,
base layers, light breakfast, sun
glasses, water proof gloves, pants
over boots, balaclava, take phone,
take breaks, talke pulse, take it
easy, don’t lift.

Wanting to not leave anything
unfinished, like the quarter moon,
low in the cloud cleared sky; my
hands, soft and sleepless as a love
poem, search for you beneath the
billow of blankets. With a whimper
you pull me to you, and wrap your
legs around me coming together
and whisper, “Give me ten minutes
and I’ll take the blue shovel.”

—
Marty Levine, a retired Bronx high school special education teacher, has been writing poetry for fifty years. His poems have appeared in a variety of anthologies including Drash, Santa Fe Literary Review, Poems of the Mountains, From the Farther Shore, Poetica, Spitball, and The Writer’s Rock Quarterly.

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