Before I knew Sandra
Winter laid tracks in her yard,
frosty lip prints on grass;
she seemed to notice more the
of moon’s sparkle, reflections on snow,
than the bone white layers
suffocating garden grounds.
Her fingers were paring knives.
Like a cutthroat artist she
sculpted the ice body
of December night
with deft slash, humming in
We met as her blades grew dull.
winter consumes her wide garden;
she scorns the moon
with mute trombone blows
from behind her window,
sculpts my hard body
with deft slash
of her new grooves.
© 2003 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez. All rights reserved.
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