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 snowfall
    and quilts made of down.


Jan Olsen