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Today, dead people are two feet farther from the sun.
All this white and the sterile icebox cold
has contracted my lungs and pupils
and replaced the cluttered punctuation in my head
with the sanctuary of winter.

The snow has me using words like magnificent again,
things I never thought would cover
the landscape again.

Today, I woke up with the feeling back in my arms
and my hands were damn near frozen.
I was in need of your hearth and homemade
bread served on a table made of
wood, whose grain is swelling with the heat.

It must be that in the night, some small creatures
found the hatch to my heart,
the levers and controls of my love.

But just the same, I’m starting to thaw
and I’d like you to be there
to stare through panes of glass with me
holistically at the pagan scenery.



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