I remember the snow.
Scanning Schönefeld in a deep winter dark,
like a night-lark timid,
thermals, newly bought and layering,
like foreign worries, or love once had,
and I remember the snow,
as far as night-eyes could see below
on amber-lit, frozen german sod;
raw awe, peril, disturbed with a faint thud,
on to the autobahn, so worrisome and warm.