Twenty-seven below, starkness before dawn;

华氏零下27度，天亮前如此寒冷

I scrunch through snow toward an impassive shape

我在积雪中艰难前行，向着她漠然的身影

sacred in her night-long confessional.  A fine layer

那身影如此圣洁，像是经过了彻夜的祷告

of unmelted powder quilts the long hairs

长长的马鬃包裹在一层尚未融化的细雪中

that insulate her back.  I remove a glove and sew

我摘下手套，手指摩挲那些毛发

my fingers beneath the fur, her skin comforting as toast.

她的皮肤温热如刚出炉的面包

Were I better equipped, perhaps bearing grain

如果我准备再周全些，应该带些谷物

she might condescend to snort, but I check only water.

那她或许会屈尊打个响鼻，但我只是查看了水

She watches—should I stumble I would quickly stiffen

她照看我——万一不小心跌倒，就会马上冻僵

like these rails which keep my world at length,

像那些长久保护着我的栏杆一样

words useless against the cold as wet flannel.

言语无助于抵抗寒冷，就像湿透的法兰绒

Here, she is composer writing on the vapor of her breath.

此刻，她是用热烈的鼻息写作的歌人