Meteorologist

The snow's been cut to lace
while you lay, tawny tawny,
half asleep through every dawn.

Which I count unlucky
because unbuoyed is unwell
and I can't trust the spring.

Not here.
Not in in this land of better fogs
that clots me sometimes even until June

Not now.
Not after a winter ruined
by rotted rinks on January lawns.

I need you to throw the windows
and declare it no false breath
upon your shoulders

I need you
to smooth my pillowed hair
and talk of something less sinister.

I need you to stretch your hands
against the raw-born sun 

and strike into it,
Never turning.