The mile from my apartment was snow, 
and the mile back was ice. 
Buses moaned on the curves as they passed; 
the stoplights all flashed red. 
She’d step squarely where it was soft, 
but she tiptoed around the slick. 
She was complaining she couldn’t stop
shivering, her feet were freezing, 
it was slippery. She said the cold was bitter. 

I said I agreed. But I couldn’t help 
remembering the night, and the red freeze
of that ripe, frostbitten cherry, 
and how I found the cold so sweet.