The Cold

            You told me it was spring
            because of frost blooming against the glass,
            and I watched us melt there,
            thrown up against the cold.
            
            We couldn't have slid further into spring if we tried.
            But after the last bloom melted,
            I began to doubt what you said when
            you told me it was spring.
            
            Your breath flickering beside the candle—
            I leaned over to snuff it out,
            but looked out the window and stopped—
            because of frost blooming against the glass.
            
            I thought maybe I'd believe in spring again
            because your hand was warm I lifted it,
            only to smell the scent of another bloom.
            And I watched us melt there…
            
            I found a place for us in the garden come spring.
            You won't feel the cold now that you're sleeping.
            We'll be two naked stems there,
            thrown up against the cold.