Ruth Daniell

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.