As
the days shrink around us,
it’s even more vital to reach out.
it’s even more vital to reach out.
We
stand surrogate for the sun,
its warmth and light on sabbatical.
its warmth and light on sabbatical.
Down
on the gray sky pond,
ice grows like daggers.
ice grows like daggers.
Our
ducks huddle, unsure
about the nature of things aqueous
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.
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