Just once (for a couple of days)
I touched the snow. It was on the end of year trip,
She was 18 years old at the time, which is like saying
that at that moment he was immortal.

I believe that the world,
that is: every latitude and every opening and stone,
cliffs and snowdrifts and wetlands
and hills, sea, snake, rabbit, rain,
cavern, estuaries, everything guards and exposes
to the human senses
something unnamed but that, by usury, one well
can call Love.

That was (and perhaps rightly so) for me
snow, that will be for everyone
-whether he touched it or not, tasted it or not-
the texture and smell of snow.

In those years of immortality
one touches the mountain, which is a kind of miracle. And then it goes up through the arteries
until biting the heart
a cold heat, the teeth flicker in the mouth
and they bleed, and that taste is old
like sugar in fruits.

We then entered the offices
where we pay taxes, we choose
furniture for the new house,
We send our children to French classes,
we look out of the corner of our eye at the planes that pass
Heading to Venice or Rio or the Carpathians,
and putting a smoke cigarette in his mouth
metaphysical, we remember the texture of snow,
the naked frozen butter rising
between the toes.

There is a moral indecency in the snow
that makes us cry with tenderness.