Winter Light

A cold day
for a walk, you emerge out of the house
into clear, white air,
round and pregnant and
wearing a fuchsia sweater.
I think back to the years
we knew each other best

and as we walk I listen
to your voice as out of a memory,
surreal over the soft crunching of ice
under our boots. You were gone for too long

and now life’s taken you
in unplanned directions.
We walk side by side
and our breath is white against white.
The snow is powder,
light—the sun made all of flashes,
the shadows all of blue. I remember

the summer photographs I took of you
against the sun: friendship was infinite then,
and you were mine, overexposed,
melting
almost into white.

 
 
 
 
 
 

Ruth Daniell is a writer originally from Prince George, BC, who currently lives in Vancouver. She is the 2014 winner of the Young Buck Poetry Prize with Contemporary Verse 2, and her poems have also appeared in Room, The Maynard, Qwerty, Grain, and Arc Poetry Magazine. She holds her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and teaches at the Bolton Academy of Spoken Arts. She is also the editor for BOOBS, an anthology about women’s relationships to their breasts, which will be published by Caitlin Press in 2016.