When snow begins to melt,

kiss me

underneath the juniper tree,

where we will be protected

by green-laden limb

pierced finger

to

red lips.

Worry not of the hardships we’ve faced,

but instead

of how many flowers we may get to see

before our next winter.

(And rest assured, my darling.

The love I have for you is as sure

as the whiteness of snow,

the redness of blood.)

I have made a deal with a little bird,

the one

with a millstone

around its fragile neck.

It still carries the weight of the world

upon its gold-adorned wings

just

as I

have done.

Now, my dear,

there isn’t any need

to long for anything any longer.

Our future is certain,

our happiness

guaranteed.

I will place the tips of my fingers

about your head,

still secure above your neck,

feel the groove where your shoulders curve outward

trace the ridges of your collarbone

and once I am sure—

completely sure—

we may return inside,

you may place your scarf,

blood red,

on the table,

and I—

I will be buried beneath our juniper tree,

watching the snow fall down,

dreaming of bird song.