If I can’t see out across that horizon I know you will describe it for me.
“It’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen,” you’d say to me.
“It is long and cold and full of secrets. It is compassionless
and uncaring. It what it is according to its nature. The ocean is a cruel mistress.”
But I have never sailed the ocean I tell you.
“And still it always calls you back–not to ride it, to sail, but to its shores,
Its fingertips that tickle your toes.”
If I can’t hear the mountains you will tell me what they say.
“They are slow and hard and always growing–even now.
They say they are restless and naked. Their valleys unexplored,
Their snow never melted–but waiting.”
But I have not climbed them all I tell you.
“And nobody has. Yet they speak to you and draw
You back to rest in the heart of their bosom.”
If I cannot feel the moon at night you will put your hands upon me.
I do not need you to tell me how this feels.
The moon is kind and cool and never changes her mind.
Your hands are warm and soft and never have felt better
Than they do here and now.
The moon looks down at us and I don’t want the ocean
Or the mountains
Or the moon at all.
Just in this night and life I breathe you in
and breathe you out.
Winter Station 