Eight Degrees Below Zero
In the harsh tundra wind
our tent is attached to sphagnum
shallow, frosty soil and your limbs
quiver and hold
onto hope of an absent dream
you curl in my arms
are you cold
you ask and try to
forget the snow
just outside our tent
not with you in my arms
I say, and suddenly you laugh
your warmest laughter and stretch
your foot far enough
just to touch mine
Libros Libertad 