Winter, a man

I can fix him, I think

Him and the salt and pepper 
That had begun to scratch his roots

Him and the suffocating snow,
Years like tiny sprinkled seasoning 
Accumulating on his solitary shoulder, 
Until he is stooped and moody like pine

I can tell his lakes have not frozen yet so
There is still a chance,
Just listen
To the bumping of ice on the shore

I can tell there is still something soft to reach
When I cup my hands on the mountain face
Streaked with tear rivulets that surely 
Follow the canyons carved by 
A history of smiling

I can fix him, I think
As he laces his scalding fingers of frostbite
Between mine.