The roads are bad and you miss
your old car, an even-tempered '68 Volvo,
those times jerry-rigged gaskets
and pantyhose fanbelts got you home
through worse weather, the expansiveness
of that gesture. The year's first snow

fell at noon and stuck, a thin light resting
on the firs that draws out the fade
of 4 o'clock and throws a clean sheet
over roadkill, a small blessing of dying
in winter. There is a loveliness to inadequacy
so simply put. I place a hand on your arm,

heavy clothes a door to the warm kitchen
of your body. You are deep inside the driving,
leaving me to consider the beautiful stall
of water frozen in the act of falling
from its pious glacier, to my resolve
to find an opening in this season,
feet cold, heart wagging its little tail.