As the days shrink around us, it’s even more vital to reach out. We stand surrogate for the sun, its warmth and light on sabbatical. Down on the gray sky pond, ice grows like daggers. Our ducks huddle, unsure about the nature of things aqueous and we are grateful for the snag, lightning-struck two years ago, now warming our fingers. A few post oaks have hung onto their leaves, brittle templates for new foliage. They rattle as winter keens a soprano song overhead, and we whistle along, leaning into the future so our feet don’t slip from under us, leaning into the space of chill and silence. Good thing we have red hens and brown eggs, and new light reaching for June.
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.