Winding Sheet

WINDING SHEET

Winded, wounded
there will be no more poems
the day you leave me
only winter’s first snows
fallen all along the distant mountains
like the form of a sleeping woman
her back turned.

As if every frost crystal
falling gently one by one
throughout the silent night
with melt-in-mouth
frisson of my tongue
upon your satin skin were
this blanket, shift dress, slip
my shroud.

I will cease to talk
and set off into the wilderness
instead, a painter perhaps
an easel on his back
his shock of hair like brushes
who no longer has the heart
to speak into the wind
only to listen.