Though I am told you are old immovable,
a large and ominous cloud above my head,
I cannot see you there.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of you
as a bundled winter couple,
gloves about to touch as you turn the corner
often seven strides ahead of me as I walk home
but when I return to by bed,
and can count the tics of my steady heart
I grab you and hold you close
until morning weakens my grip.