This isn’t a true villanelle in the Dylan Thomas style. Perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe not.
She Waits in Snow-filled Lanes
She watches his slow rolling gait
as he pushes through white, the tenor
of his voice forcing her to wait.
His eyes with crinkles in the corner
alight upon her face back-lit by snow.
She stuffs down her sense of horror
that he might notice her heart low
within her eyes; that she might feel
more than he is ready to know.
So with hands deep in pockets of teal,
his warm breath fanning her cheek,
she waits on his mouth to heal
all that has come before. And weak
though she might be, she hopes
he will take hold of hand and seek
something farther than this moment
with feet sunk inches in snow
and toes too frozen for movement,
toward whatever the future might hold.
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