I can’t find warmth. It’s not our altitude,
The Alps’ substantial snow that fashions shapes,
New powder coating life, replenished nights — —
When bodies are restored, small tissues knit.

Our private proofs of love, sought after dark,
Materialized, bubbled on bedsprings,
Where we discovered sources: love’s issue,
Like riches stored in secret places — — we
Becoming multiplied. And we sang praise
To blood that won’t remain alone, praised love
That fashioned newborn shapes — — maternity,
Till one excluding cry — — then silent nights.

I can’t get warm since watching that Snow-Cat.
I skied its tracks spooled ’round some evergreens,
And thought of children playing Christmas Day
Around our tree, discarded tissue balled
Near opened presents, newborn joy in place.
That manscape tows me back to bed. You get
Me in a head-lock, then a white tangle.
Outside, there’s carolling, their voices raised
To praise one deer. The sauna whistles steam,
As we’re replenished red, in sweat, in leaves.