Improbably Warm

Your feet crackle over the stones,
mountains of slate, grey and oily
in the quarry’s abandonment.

Here and there birches have found foothold
and rise, their bright white bark crisp
against the winter sky.

They are leafless.
Winter has claimed all evidence of their life.
They are dead things, dead as December
without Christmas.

In your hand are flowers,
prickly purple thistles, their color bright
against your pale winter skin.

You will take them and put them in a small vase
where they will live longer
than the next hard frost.

They will remind you of your own December
and the woman who warms it, and leaves you
improbably warm.

About this poem

A grateful man’s love poem.

The picture was taken in the quarry across the street.

Tom