the white night-shirt
in my sock drawer
no longer carries
your scent
when it did
i always found
it hard to describe
the smell
of the lacy
the scent was not only
of perfume
but of a body
not only of a
body but of a soul
a soul that
held me in such a way
i wanted so desperately
to keep the smell
wrapped up within the
wound tightly into the
silken threads
but it didn’t hold
try as i might
it didn’t hold
now winter has arrived
and the delicate cloth
is the color of the snow
and lost within
the bleakness
of memory

in the first
light of
the trees
shed snow
a gentle wind
has taken it
i stand
and watch
it will
never be
trying to
the fresh snow
against the
i know
this and
i believe you
do too
you can’t
with arms
like branches
those of
another tree