things move around

This new year’s day, soft and slow,
snow falls across the hills
like a veil or a new vow,

deadening distant churchbells,
as we set out on our walk,
to low, dull mumbles

until larch and birch and oak
soak up the last drops of sound.
Neither of us speak,

but you seek my hand
in the pocket of my coat,
and I feel your knuckles bend

awkwardly in search of the old fit.
Snow falls, slow and soft,
thickening underfoot,

as I untangle fingers deftly,
mutter about being off the path,
and let my thoughts drift

like the sough of our breath
in midwinter air;
and silently I restate the myth

that a cool and civil veneer,
like a crust of frost, staunches
faithlessness. Near and far,

snow falls: by evening, ten inches
blocks our tracks from view
and burdens the branches.