into the winter
there is the ice.
the solitude of white shapes. there’s your snore—aboriginal, from the other room. there’s the remaining relevant—the cooper hawk youth stalking the hens’ coop. there’s the before the storm, zenic in the after—the warmth of conversation with yourself—and there the grand minutia, the small font print you read to spry the mind. there’s that straight pin stabbing the half sewn sleeve, and closer, on the head of the pin,
the into the winter—
the slow birth peeling away old worlds—so that all that meditates, all that hums and is fertile and trustworthy and undeniably beautiful is in your hand, cupped now, like the caught winter moth, ragged in the winter howl—marking its arcs of the human halo.