The New York winter sun
has risen in your East,
and will set in my West,
for this one shortest day.
A world shrunk to a patch
of wooded arbours
where souls can meet
and find their willing flesh.
This snow-cloaked park
is all that lies between,
its crooked, spinstered trees,
naked from abandoned leaves,
are veiled and downed with
the frost-flecked confetti
of fleeting bridal relief.