than all of Saskatchewan, rise and solidify.

Within me, you brush against my face with your palm,

a frozen meadow, just to the north of Neptune.

We marry again, sealed by a minister of opal and snow,

acquainting ourselves with our own translucent paramours.

Like the sled wolves that carry us forward, I cannot

make myself understood.

But I give you a song, and the words of this song

require no music, need no sound.

In morning regained, I will awaken happy, unable to remember why.

The dirt of travel will still be written upon my face,

bits of time and sand

which your meaningful hand cannot erase.