It's cold
and I an growing old -
today my teeth,
tomorrow my eyes.
Gulls fly by,
before they are bones.
I look into stones
for houses, animals, older signs of life.
My husband died nine years ago.
Nine!
I saw his last sigh,
kissed his cold skull.
The cold is a stone
preserving memory.
At least for me
I see,
I always remember,
time,
warm things,
love,
when it is cold.
