I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I worry my last letter offended you. If so: apologies. It’s hard for me to tell, sometimes, when I should staple back my tongue. Your choices are your own. God knows my adolescence wasn’t the picture of propriety. (And look how well I turned out. Ha!)
As for your poem. What a strange, lovely opening. “You used to pet the/soft fur that grew on the tips/ of my ears. Pleasure in the seat of my belly/ as you held me, mother.” I wonder if you might consider adding one more verse. As it is, it’s a bit difficult to tell exactly what happens after the mother wanders into the snow. Overall though, fine work.