Lawrence Beck

I tell myself you'll be okay.
How would I know? You're
Half a continent away, and,
Here, the light is growing dim.
The tortured forms of leafless
Oaks and maples loom. The
Ground is frozen. All is lost,
And I, adrift in uselessness,
Complete the tasks which
Prove me so. You cannot
Feel your arms, you say.
I cannot climb into the wires
To arrive to comfort you.
I wish you well, I know your
Spirit. You will, somehow,
Still persist, as I, with so
Much less conviction, stall
And stagger off to bed
Alone. I wish that you were
Here to hear me say, and
Tell me, we're okay.