First Snow Video

You've never seen it fall.
Hold on. I'm filming.
(first snow video)

Minnesota morning, early dark,
first flakes drifting past the light,
and my whole first thought was you. Your night.
Stood on the porch in two jackets,
phone up, narrating like a fool:
it's like the sky is slowly erasing,
it lands on your sleeve and tells the truth.
You watched it eight time zones away
with your morning tea going cold.

You sent back thirty seconds
of you laughing at my accent
saying snoooow like a discovery.
It is one. You are one.

First snow video, shot from my window.
Everything new, I see it twice:
once with my eyes, once for yours.
Distance, be useful for once.

Film it. (for me)
Send it. (to me)
(see it twice)

So now we trade the planet's footage:
I send blizzards, you send rain —
real rain, fat and warm and shouting
on the old zinc roof, our refrain.
You filmed your jacaranda street for me,
purple falling like slow fireworks.
I played it on a hard night of my winter
and my whole apartment turned warm.
Two cameras, one long conversation.
The world narrating us to us.

You sent back thirty seconds
of you laughing at my accent
saying snoooow like a discovery.
It is one. You are one.

First snow video, shot from my window.
Everything new, I see it twice:
once with my eyes, once for yours.
Distance, be useful for once.

Truth is, when you finally visit in winter,
I already know what I'll do:
say nothing. Open the door. Watch your face
do the thing my voice did in that video.
Some things I refuse to describe anymore.
I'm saving them for your eyes.

Mm. (film it)
Mm. (send it)
(see it twice)

First snow video, shot from my window.
Jacaranda purple on my winter wall —
once with my eyes, once for yours.
Distance, be useful for once.

It's still falling.
Camera's still rolling.
(this one's for you)