Patricia Traxler

When it snows, he stands at the back door or wanders around the house to each window in turn and watches the weather like a lover. O farm boy, I waited years for you to look at me that way. Now we’re old enough to stop waiting for random looks or touches or words, so I find myself watching you watching the weather, and we wait together to discover whatever the sky might bring.

Late winter, almost spring. It's like finding a diamond; now I don't want to leave. I sit in the dirt and put my hands in your tracks. For the first time in a long time I don't doubt. Now I know I always knew you were here. You are the beginning of disclosure, the long-felt presence Suddenly incarnate. Behind me my friend warns, If we see the bear, get into a fetal position. No problem, I tell her, I'm always in a fetal position—I was born in a fetal position. Did you know, she says, the body of a shaved bear looks exactly like a human man? I skip a stone, feel a sudden bloat of grief, then laugh. I ask her, Who would shave a bear? We climb Farther up Rattlesnake Creek, watch winter sun glitter off dark water. No matter how high we go I look higher. Sometimes absence can prove presence. That's not exactly faith, I know. All day, everywhere, I feel you near at hand. There's so much to understand, and everything to prove. Up high the air is thin and hard, roars in the ears like love.