A Flame
/Clouds hang low,
as if they’ll split
their smoky bellies
upon buildings,
spilling everything
on everything.
Breaths of white cold brume
in listless air,
I can feel them sigh
like you did on that rooftop
in January, when we could have
still been seedlings
in the awakening earth
next to each other,
roots entwined as we rose, pushed up
moist earth to hungrily feel
the wide flame of summer.
But there has been no sun
for many days,
that is fine--
winter holds a flame
hotter than any of summer:
the desire to bloom again.