Playfully, I steal the Argentinian
away from reedy palm trees and waifish
sandbars, then gift him to the Laurentians.
Here, winter sasses each pine, a soft lisp
that sloughs quilted hills as we glide old trails.
He sees in Precambrian rocks trompe-l'oeils,
then tips his hat at mordant cardinals.
We freeze as a stag appears, the viceroy
of these woods. He is lost gentry who stows
sage verse, outlining seasons without words.
I coax my friend to build a woman of snow.
Wise, his craft, for he leaves her un-girded,
and from evergreen, he weaves a lush bonnet.
I laugh; there in his grin smiles, too, a sonnet.
*For my friend, Ruben