The snow held your shape like bedding,

the shadow of your hand over your head ruined

by the feet of the men who found and carried you.

 

I stayed in your house for a day, following your habits,

coatless to the shed and back. I finished the wood

you’d begun to split, feeling the heft of the axe

 

as you felt it. We are always becoming what

we lose. They will say they saw a fox whisper

into your ear. They will never come back.

 

I pawed the snow to form your hand again,

your sleeping profile. Then I pressed my face

to the mold of your cheek and I became you.