I want to make angels with you
in the crisp newborn snow.
Will you rise with me
this whimsical morning?
My angel would have bed-head
and one foot a half-size bigger;
yours, a scar on its shoulder
and a crooked bottom incisor --
but angels do not
have such flaws.
Can we lie down together
and make perfect shapes,
clothed in purple predawn light
and nothing else?
But we must stand with care,
leaving the closest thing to perfection
we have ever known
Then will you trample our angels,
kick the snow and ruin the smoothness,
crush ice crystals beneath unlaced boots
as we greet the morning
with a two-step waltz?
I should like to share that with you.