Tell me I am a garden, the odd path out of the forest, thorns. The floor of our stone house loves you as I love your morning weight, evening lightness. We harvest the mist over four lakes. We envy beech leaves, which won’t escape their branch and fall. It is January. You dive for lake pearls, freshwater assassins. What would you have me tell you? The black socks were a joke. The cork dried out. The air still wet after rain. We hide the shoe in our sycamore and feast on solitude. We envy mallards traipsing the lake’s thin ice. Last ice. You unstitch your shirt, my sheet, this poem. At midnight, we thirst, we wake and pace the halls. Rose glass, ache, pewter, moss: I fail the window’s art. You wait out the frost. Tell me how to undo you.