Letter Spoken in Wind

Today we walked the inlet Nybøl Nor
     remembering how to tread on frozen snow.
          Ate cold sloeberries

that tasted of wind—a white pucker—
     spat their sour pits in snow. Along
          the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved

into a white field. Your voice
     on the phone, a gesund auf dein keppele
          you blessed my head. Six months now

since I've seen you. There are
     traces of you here, your curls still dark
          and long, your woven dove,

the room you stayed in: send your syllables,
     I am swimming below the tidemark.
          Words shed overcoats, come

to me undressed, slender-limbed, they have no
     letters yet. It is the festival
          of lights, I have no

candles. I light one for each night,
     pray on a row
          of nine lighthouses.