A poem should write itself

what will you write today, dear poem,

the wind in my face, the swish of cold snow,

a heart beating, not too fast, not too slow

dear poem, what is in your heart, or in mine,

you, who know me so well, you, who

have been following each moment of

"ma vie tellement modeste".

You, the poem in my breast, you lead

me along, shielding my eyes as best 

you could, and bringing me along to this 

exact moment, where I waited for you,

and you arrived.