COMA

Those damp sun-lit mornings
in the gray of winter,
the two of us walking the edge
of the cracked pond,
past the clink of cowbells
and the splintered barn,
an empty white pasture
in the distance, the sound
of black oaks crackling
beneath clumps of snow.

This is what I think of
as I sit in the waiting room--
the frozen air, horses pacing
in their silver stalls,
the white smoke of your breath
rising like a ghost.