I loathe the granite firm cold
of my empty bed in winter.
It asks of me
to meet with your recoiling,
like a tulip from the night,
and wonder if it is possible
to reach across from my
delicate dismay, my knowing melancholy,
to the precipice where you totter,
infantile and unknowing, between
a dark pool and a downy pile
of dying maple leaves.

It is hard for you to know
what my frailties require,
what reassurances you can extend
when you are still so lithe
and shapeless, no more formed
than a sapling in spring.

The lonely cold of winter
seems my admonishment
for trying to drown you.