Snowballs at Dovestone, December 2020

A long winter, this year. Started in March

and hardly let up since. We’ve shuddered on,

huddled in homes, muddled in conversations,

shuffling our feet to keep our distance

but trying not to show it – trying to say

I love you in unprecedented ways.

We need each other. You’re dangerous. So am I.

I want to be close to you. Please don’t die.

Snow in the night. We woke up, drove beyond

the city limits to a reservoir

called Dovestone, like the bird that brought

the olive branch to Noah’s lonely ark.

All six of us stood up there on the hillside,

glowing in good company as light

skittered off the water like skimmed pebbles.

We bowed our heads and opened out our palms,

gladly scooping up the fresh, sticky snow

spread beneath our feet like icing sugar

on this little ice age year, and pressing it

together like the measure of our blessing:

even apart, there’s us.

So lift your face,

check your distance in a different way,

and scope your targets. Time to live, to launch

compacted missiles of pure affection (and snow)

into the space between us. Ready? Go.