Letter Spoken in Wind

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


into a white field. Your voice
             on the phone, a gezunt in dayn kepele
                            you blessed my head. Six months now
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