We’re standing in a puddle
Faces tilted upwards
Wet snow isn’t graceful as it plops down
Melting across the sharp ridge of his nose
And sliding down my cheekbones
Slinking past our hoods as we watch the wind
A mesmerizing cyclone of ice coaxed into a spiral
Rising, rising, rising with purpose
We don’t speak
He’s been trying to be better about listening
Striving to hear what I’m not saying
The silence is enormous
But I’m filling it with poetry