Landlocked since June, housebound for a week,
a train of dominoes derailed across the floor,
some ambassador I am.
And yet there arrives word from the coast:
Freezing rain and windshield ice.
As the red hot blood cools in her veins,
the matriarch peers through a magnifying lens
at the inscription I sent, says she sees but a marble clock.
I assure the messenger he wrote it down correctly,
consoling him for having witnessed my lashing.
His eyes seem to take in the snow.
Return to your depot, I say, with this message:
Querida señora, I begrudge you no tides,
nor sand, nor palm trees glistening wet.
If you wish, let the terms of our agreement sleep awhile longer.
No rush, except from the wind, grown colder now, and stronger.