Once again

I find myself in the midst
of a poem
I had no intention of writing.

Outside my window the world
is sleeping, but here within words
sprawl across the page,
are erased in haste,
and soon reappear
as I bend and shape the line.

I might have learned by now
that your essence cannot be captured
with a few phrases,
but I am still the fool
you fell in love with
and thus,
I am writing this poem.

When I set my pencil down
I will imagine coming
home to you on a dreary winter day,
walking through the door with
the third snow of January
clinging to my boots.

Out of the cold,
I will lift my eyes to you
And remember, for a moment,
The empty house,
The noiseless rooms,
The endless quiet
you spared me.