Raining in February

I miss you
when the rain
drips cold
and freezes on the windshield
of my black car.
What could be worse
than to be alone in the rain
and the dark of February?
This emptiness my silent companion
when there are fires burning
and tea to share
and the warm, softness
of skin rubbed with oils
protected against the winds
and harshness of winter
by flannel sheets?

I miss you today
more than I thought
a woman of my age
could allow herself--
to feel the ache
in the space where
a heart might have taken up
residence only a few lifetimes
before this one.
How could that longing survive
in this body that has forgotten
how to glow?

Until you,
I was lost in the common
comforts of a busy life.
Hands wrapped around pottery in the morning,
cotton to console
my midday feet in clogs,
and a warm soup on the stove
at the evening of the day.

Now I miss the minerals
of your mouth pressed against the fluid
nature of my breath--
constantly flowing south
toward the ocean
of home.

What I would give
to find an umbrella,
a large quilt,
and the sound of laughter
riding next to me
to a new sanctuary
where we wouldn’t
build walls
to hold out the irresistibility
of the flowers that will come
to bloom
in only a few short months.
We’d stretch our pale skins
naked next to yellow flowers
and greens
and in the sun
allow our faces to relax
without giving up
the treasures we thought we could
only lose in this game.