These winter mornings die in my feet.
I cut my hair short for you in summer,
now I am so cold.
Yesterday an ember burned my leg.
When you returned you kissed the welt
and said you’d buy me a housedress.
The boulevards are snowed over.
I wanted something to read
but the merchants along the quay
refused to open their stalls.
I picked branches this morning
and stripped the dead elm.
Tell me it will soon be spring.
You will bring me flowers
and we’ll travel to St. Denis
where I’ll light candles for my mother.
I want to feel warm enough to be naked
instead of straining before this fire.
Stuart Dischell’s poems are part of a sequence based on Bonnard's paintings of nudes. (Spring 1975)