You were scaling the metal scaffolding with a chainsaw in your hand, trying to get at a tree growing in towards the house. The pools of your eyes matched the sky so perfectly, it was as if I was seeing straight through your skull to the blue beyond.
I stared into the comparison for several minutes, allowing my own eyes, green, to sting against the white light of the now ubiquitous ice-snow. You had no eyes, only sky.
A strong limb fell then – but it did not break your jaw. I watched, still, as you rubbed the side of your face with the chainsaw crying. I thought how the testosterone in those brief moments could be harvested it was so thick, too heavy for the seven-degree wind. I stared at your hands adjusting the blade around the machine and thought about what we did for hours that early morning when the sun was only beginning to come. I saw your shoulders move underneath all the layers of sweaters and turtlenecks and t-shirts – in that order – as you stretched your arms and shook your head. I could see from behind that you were smiling and I knew your face then exactly without your turning around.
My neck was hot, and I kept my eyes on your back as I thought of how you won again, against the world.
good advice 