We met neath frost laden boughs
in the stealth of stolen moments
in the middle of December.
Your breath my breath
warm and urgent against our skin.
Our footsteps merged and melted
in virgin snow, our dance within
a speckled snow globe.
My red scarf slipped
leaving my shoulder bare
I shivered when you placed bold lips there.
Sun shifted and it was time to go,
Did we make promises, no.
you said you owed that to your wife.
Three decades have passed, to some
a lifetime, to others the time of their life.
Your name I’ve kept close and whisper
each new year in a silent toast.
The memory vibrant and even now
I see that yarn of red laying in virgin snow
an emblem of my life, a spilt red bordeaux.
A sorry loss for a stupid cuss. I’d be a wino for that bordeaux. – mh clay