barefoot

In the negative light of winter, when we walk on white
and look at black, I like to remember cool grass
kissing my bare feet, warm sand hugging my toes,
a light breeze luffing my shirt, the comfort of shadow,
the gold delight of sun. When the tiny winter sun
hoards heat like a parking lot lamp, I like to remember
walking a hot sidewalk under a sun hat, my arms
and neck plastered with sun-block/insect repellent.
When the winter wind slashes branches against
the house and sculpts snow into whimsical curves,
I like to remember a guitar plunking around the campfire,
the bang of the screen door and the rhythm of bare
feet on the wooden floor. When the wind knocks snow
off a tree and down my neck, I think of your fingers trailing
through the hair on my neck as you walked beside me
down to the water for a quiet swim as the sun sets.