黎明前是那样的严寒，华氏零下27度，

Twenty-seven below, starkness before dawn;

我嘎吱嘎吱踏着积雪向我的马儿走去。

I scrunch through snow toward an impassive shape

她若有所思地望着我的脆弱身体，本能地

sacred in her night-long confessional.  A fine layer

觉得应该受到尊敬。薄薄一层未融化的雪

of unmelted powder quilts the long hairs

罩在她的背部隔热层的棕毛上。

that insulate her back.  I remove a glove and sew

我脱下手套，手指伸进她柔软的毛里，

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

她的皮肤摸起来好像刚烤好的热面包。

Were I better equipped, perhaps bearing grain

如果我准备得好一些，也许带着食料来，对此

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

她可能不屑一顾地喷鼻息，但我只查看了饮水。

She watches—should I stumble I would quickly stiffen

她凝望着我——知道我这时转身走开的话，

like these rails which keep my world at length,

可能会很快像僵硬的栏杆似的跌倒，

words useless against the cold as wet flannel.

这些长久地支撑我的世界的栏杆！迎着

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

这如法兰绒般厚的湿冷，我的话毫无用处。

在这里，她是用她鼻息的热气写作的作家。