Hypothermia, a Poem
You started as a shape in the snow.
Not dead, but like
one pretending to be dead,
body temperature dangerously low,
mind in a torpor. I stripped you
to your underwear. I undressed, and crawled into
the sleeping bag with you,
and looked at the sky through hardwoods
bare of leaves.
I told you how nice it is when
the wind sends tremors through the tops
of the trees and underneath it's still.
I did not voice
my regret that the shape in the snow
was only you and not a new me.
Slowly, you began
to warm. I said, "Come to consciousness."
You whispered, "Are you my poem?"
I answered, "No, I am only a story."