Graham

Copper frosted swan sleeps on your lips,
flutters in the cold alpine wind, rustling
through whitewash leaves of virgin cedar bough.

Your feathers flutter like a red vibrant heart
at its melting point of spring, when the flowers bloom;
I kissed your lips then and the snow was kind.

Now could it be that the greatest thing I’d ever find
was under the ridges of a pale chest
that the turning point of winter was  
in the soul of your palm?