I waited on the edge of a slush washed parking lot,
On an island of white in a sea of blacktop gray.
The ice sheathed branches of miniature trees swayed in the air,
The shining swords and spears of attacking winter armies.
Angry wind children threw glittering snow up to the exalted clouds,
Far above in the great wide blue of muffled airplane roar.
The cold trussed up all the muscles around my heart.
With bones of ice and skin of glass,
With blinded eyes,
I held my many cracks together and tried not to shatter,
Until she got there.