There is a riddle that I won’t say from this distance, from this waiting

Only to your ear in our most tender eventual, it’s an obvious thing, a rhetorical whisper

A mutual surrender but never a white flag, always a forest: rarely a fire though we seem to be wandering in both, in this glow, in this rumbling dreamland

Evergreen needles frosted in the first snow of the year, not a plea but a breath

Hold me in this smoke, in this cold, in this encroachment of oil sheened future, hold me in this

I surrender the tick of my time, rhythm, body, electric signal to your hands and hazel eyes shining in the cool

Wrapped in your sighs like a blanket when the rain begins

Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.