Here the gods disguised as winter tourists
watch a miracle of snow and sing
a midnight mass in latinate for purists.
O heart within my heart, there is no home
here for us to rest from wandering
among the marble tombs and pines of Rome.
Souls at twilight brush against us here
in gardens once designed to outlast death,
as one who drowned for love’s sake put off fear.
But in this winter, which of us might be
a god?—when love’s longed-for final breath
turns to ice to last eternity.
Grey Sparrow Journal 