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.