Like No One Came

October morning, first snow drifted
across the wood-grain window sills
on eastern walls. Ice coated tree limbs,
but the sky still felt watercolor.
A picture of summer in liquid amber.

There shouldn't have been snow;
the roads still lay in black bands
on their sides, waiting instead
for simple rain. But waves beat
like a dusk in the sunlight.

Now and then the breeze whipped
my skirt back and licked me
as a lover, circles in my thighs,
the small of my back, skin raised
in heated pleas of oh God and now here.

The ocean ached in a shuffle of limb
until it was too dark to move.
Too cold for October, for Sundays.
I pulled my hands from my tangled hair
and cupped the snow. It stuck
to my wet fingers and I had to open
my hands before it melted away.

Thrust toward summer's sky
with an oh God and you're here.
Winter made a sparrow in my eye
—numbed my hands and left me
stranded by the sea next morning.