my dream

my dream

I see you like this:

you clutch the tiny warm ball

of a new brown field-mouse.

pressing it into the warmth of your

scented neck

where your hair bends gently in

to brush your careful fingers...

it is cold outside,

and your breath moves slowly

away:

clouds of warmth

in the snow-white sunlight,

your words of comfort, your

essence atomized,

released

and later,

if the mists linger in the

year-old plow-valleys

whispering, "It's alright...

All is not cold and hunger,"

you will still be there,

warm.

It is only a dream I have,

a dream in which I am

helpless and

nestled in your neck.