winter's wingspan

She was nine months pregnant and this
was her first minnesota winter.

She smiled brightly when I gave her the hand-me-down peacoat
never complained about not sharing spiked egg nog
            illegally sipped
    and wine glass conversation. She told me she loved it here,
that the plains looked like the wingspan of a vast christmas angel
who had wings
frosted in snow.

But I knew that her own wings ached
to be cramped
between sky
              scrapers
and vending machines.

Her hands spread into the snow, 
black masts of a ship against clear skies.
I wanted to kiss her
like she was my sister, tell her that homesickness is alright
if you stay with the ones who love you
that love they give will overflow
and the image of a cup

filled with snow fairies and pine wreaths
will substitute for
hot beaches, who’s own wingspan
stops at the sea.