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.