One November night
I drove up the steep slope
of the 4th of July Pass;
plowed through sheets of fresh snow,
all starry white, glazed with sparkling frost,
headed towards Coeur D’Alene,
You were lying next to me,
your breath rising and falling in my ears,
fogging the windshield,
your body slack with sleep.
I sank into the heated leather seat of my Jetta,
blared the defroster,
listened to Habib Koite softly crooning,
as my heart stretched
over all of I 90,
expansive and wide and wild as Montana,
clenching and breaking with too much love for you,
knowing that soon
you would leave.
Yet that moment was silent
like the falling snow.