poem: light snow

in her head he brings her coffee

and a small smile, which he places just before her

as something young and fragile and

maybe delicate. she bites her lips when

she smiles back, the cold november in the crinkly

spaces of her mittens that scrunch into his

black gloves when he takes her hand

and leads her into greyer skies,

ruddy clouds

spitting

snow, maybe just a miracle for the

young, and maybe melted by tomorrow or by

her flinching awake and paying for her coffee.

again, the fewer coins making gravestone indents into

her palms, her earbuds twisted into soft acoustics, and

her hair pushed

busily behind her ears: she wears her intelligence as much

as she wears her old-fashioned sweaters and people take

her as abrasive. coffee hot in her

hands

and she steps outside.

when she closes her eyes

he is kissing her in the fresh snow.