An Angel Walked Behind Me

knowing that a long time ago
in October of an earlier
year, I had night-time

She was my first
taste of grass after
a long winter

and flowed like a charcoal
mare.  Tonight she’s
a tree after decades
of twisting, with a winter
She doesn’t want my voice
at the far end
of a wire; no, she wants
my heat my weight my breath.