Today we walked the inlet Nybøl Nor
remembering how to tread on frozen snow.
Ate cold sloeberries
that tasted of wind—a white pucker—
spat their sour pits in snow. Along
the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved
spat their sour pits in snow. Along
the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved
into a white field. Your voice
on the phone, a gezunt in dayn kepele
you blessed my head. Six months now
on the phone, a gezunt in dayn kepele
you blessed my head. Six months now
