(For Elena)
Blue morning light;
dreams still ferreting,
tangled sheets and warm.
Though there is
no mountain, he frets
about the other side.
About the days to
come, and the one
that’s here, idling.
About the long march,
the longer pause
the unknown next.
Still, the air carries
the milk-frost scent
of snow, call of geese.
Presently it trues itself,
nexus of dawn and witness:
feet touch floor.
