Holding you on this small Central Park hill,
fresh snow surrounding and falling on us
like blessed manna, I imagine stark chill
of high Andes around us, impetus
your llama-wool cap covering sunrise
hair, lined parade of stick-legged vicuña
encircling your head as an ancient prized
Toquepala cave painting. But soon a
white flake caresses your ear flap, and I
follow suit, flurried back to your beauty
rivaling goddess Chasca, though one eye
hides under Chilean weave, my duty
to lift it and view your gaze studying
my frozen beard, our mouths seething smoke rings.
Roger Armbrust
January 22, 2009
