My friend, I met you on an iron gray day.
Winter like smoke blew our landscape away.
Quick as a yellow finch, time seemed to be
Too fragile for its own capacity.
A warm word fitly spoken against air,
Made the momentum of it seem less bare.
Still we were left to wonder in the frost.
Like poems when their power to rhyme is lost.
Previously Published: The World Poet's Quarterly.China