Returning home in winter

Returning Home in Winter

I open the door as my wife steps

from the bath into the cold air,

goose bumps on her skin.

She wraps a towel around herself,

sees me watching, and unwraps it.

When she smiles, her breath rises.

The shadow of the bamboo sweeps

across the steps without stirring

the dusting of snow and we leave

no tracks as we climb the stairs

and fall into bed. The blackbird too

has a shadow. It crosses the sky

on winter afternoons, the sharp light

in the icicles hanging from the eaves.

In the lower corner of the old Chinese paintings,

a hermit or wandering monk sits at the base

of a mountain, his long hair dirty and his clothes torn.

Before him, the leafless branches of the trees wave.

Such a painting hangs near the stove

where my wife, now dressed,

sits brushing her hair.

I add wood to the fire.