Love making

My mother's womb
was colder than
a glacier's womb.

The ice held me tight,
the snow hid my sins.

Winter reminds me
of love,
of her,
of a blank page,
of the stories
that can be
erased to perfection.

The wind rolls the air
into wild clouds,
rides them over the hills,
washes them into greens

Watercolor and bliss -
I am turning inwardly
where spring
is a death kiss.