fresh snow on pine trees
nothing but a late birdsong -
mid-winter calmness

rascal me
I was trying to write the shortest poem
only to wake up this morning
and find my heart smiling
realising no poem would be shorter
than when –eyes closed– I pull you a little closer
to whisper on your lips
almost nothing
(oh, that sweet fragile warmth of morning closeness)

a memory of you crept under my dreams earlier
stared intently
almost demanding I let go and
fall into some half-remembered story
beneath your pillow
and so I'm taken, lying next to you
we take a moment – we smile into each other's eyes
(a stolen hour, a perhaps-gift)

and then you're gone

(I don't know why, but this is how much you disarm me
like this, you disarm me)