The Dream of Us

That night I cried myself awake
from the dream of us.
In my vision
winter had suspended icicles
from the portal of the house
where I wanted us to live,
and, wearing nothing
but silk pjs and a knitted hat,
I had taken you
to show you how they sparkled
in the snow moon’s light,
all juicy and with daring,
threatening to loose
their fragile tether
the way it seemed I also lived
in those barren days
before our spring tide
before our full-blown thaw.