High mountain peaks
where we longed to be
above narrow valleys
that sheltered our minds
during the dark December
before holiday luminarias
when only writing our poetry
and reading Virginia Wolf
gave us hope for tomorrow’s 
eager new light to erase
the quiet solitude of 
dark cafes with frosted windows
which kept us alive when snow fell 
softly on extended tongues
tasting of fresh coolness
like from a first sweet kiss.