The meteorologists will not tell you
Snow has buried the forests,
But the fire in the ceramic stove remembers:
I was hugging bark while the oak stand stood.

Felled now, sawn, stacked in piles --
For the last time, there you were taking me
Into the smoldering wound between your legs.
You knew, didn't you, I'd consented to clear-cutting. 

The hand follows the poker into the stove and the fire knows
The forged hook will leave no traces
On its flames.
But you and me: our every touch, recorded forever on the hand.

It took years and years to finally burn you down,
It took until today, and the snow snowing in the house.

And nobody, not even the gentlemen
Grinning, embarrassed, under their cyclone charts,
Knew how to say that in the midst of deepest winter even
We touch each other with our burns.