Michael L. Smith

Michael L. Smith Poems

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The Gatherer.

These days
I am too cold
My palms are at rest
Down for the long winter
My coordination and
dexterity will hibernate
And I'll cloak this poor body
With anything I can

An almost married woman
Clings to the hems of my sleeves
With thin fingers
With scissors
There to cut away the warm wool
With wild eyes
and a bitter mouth

She gathers my coat in a basket
Unravels all the careworn fibers
To cast upon her empty loom
As though she'd spun them

Casts off newly sewn kisses
Threadbare affection
Muttering crossly about the weather
And how the sun
does not melt the snow

She is only my friend when
She can touch my bare wrists
Give me white hot iron to hold
And ask me if I'm warmer

Only my friend when
She can graze my skin in surprise
Wrap my hands up with stiff yarn
And ask me what burned them

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