Hot air walks the backs of naked sleepers dreaming
lightly of snowfall and feather-filled quilts.
There is the cold crunch of heavy boots in snow
The breath of steam over the hot-tub -
And the dogs are curled as always
at the foot of the stairs.
Is it distance that warms these visions?
Enlarging a friend's white Stetson
as we thread the crowded pick-up
through a landscape grown mysterious
in starlight and snow.
Did the mountain's top clarify our harmonies,
Make us sing in perfect pitch?
Cause our eyes to turn together
to the boats far below,
their iced bows cutting the channel
to deliver the catch.
Dreaming aloud on that cold winter hill
We sailed our way south
to palm trees and lobster
and naked skin brown -
Where now we dream lightly in the hot tropic air
Of old friends
and quilts made of down.