After this ice season is over how will we again be lovers? Will we have to get sensationally drunk - sit out all night on an old Pontiac sunk in weeds up to its windows, in a field where winds blow warm over us, until you cover my body with yours, the trunk and branches of an old tree that bends above us creaking in the wind? Oh, if we have wine, car, weeds, wind, and tree, will that be enough for us to be really anything more than friends after this long ice season ends? One mid-April morning, she says, our clothing skimmed like curd, when the soothing touch of a window box-fan slips on our damp skin, it’ll wake us. Your lips, searching, will find my lips; then upend the water-jug on me, kiss collar and hips, hollows and dips – for nothing’s been lost this long winter, though we’ve grown frost-bitter, though neither of us have known how to unfreeze us – Oh, love, I don’t know how to begin, but I know it’ll end with us at last becoming lovers again.