Walking Through the Ice

I heard your breath, so light, so low,
in winter's ice with crystals fine,
and wondered, since I could not know,
if you would join that breath with mine.

Your lips were red, your hands glowed pink
as we walked through the street's blue light.
We talked about the moon, I think,
although she hid her face that night.

You never cared for poems, true,
or poets who scribble and sigh
alone. If once I cared for you,
that could have been the reason why.

If our warm lips had joined that time
(though of course there were some others),
perhaps I'd never made this rhyme,
nor any among its brothers.