Sweden, Far West
Sweden, far west –
where the lines intersect as they
quilt the globe. Solitude.
Something cold, like a child
born too early,
in December.
I am amidst the pine forests.
Have you felt the mountains
breathing between the trunks?
They whisper, Harsh winter.
My sister, a February child,
drives westward home.
We are winter’s children,
frost-kissed but rosy-cheeked –
like Christmas, only younger.
My finger traces a line on the globe:
February’s homeward journey.
Outside, summer grows old;
I am homesick for wintertide.