A SECRET

A secret.  No frost today
on my window, no tumbling stars
no forests of white, no birds
on the branch outside
no chance of one landing now
stealing the morning with their song
as I think about your hands
and how they make me feel
as beautiful as frost
as transparent as glass
as if I’ve swallowed
the sun.

BEYOND THE HORIZON

Let’s not talk about the cold
or how long the nights are–
as my friend Lucie says
the holidays are just a ploy
to keep us all from killing ourselves.

Death is not so far off; the silence
of the street, the dim light of stars–
even the moon has turned its back
on us.  And now, with only epiphany
to celebrate, we are left to our own devices.

Maybe we should be like those wise men–
show up late, wander for weeks with frankincense
and myrrh, hang with shepherds, listen for
the angels, singing on high.  Meet me
in an hour.  We can go find our own god.

WHO LOVES THE SUN

The house hums.  Dinner is all but made
the boys, animated, lay on their bellies
mapping the rules to the world they’ve made
out of colored pencil and paper.  You cannot see him
from here but you picture the pup, curled like a whelk,
dreaming of clouds to chase and French bread tossed
by squirrels, as you dream one more hour of sunlight
slanting cross the floor, honey and warm enough
to slip off socks, walk barefoot to the window, the pane
of glass so cold against your cheek now that the sun
is eaten by clouds. You are silent.  Tired of words.
They cannot bring back anything.  You watch a crow,
cut the sky with his beak, feel the hush of twilight,
the blessing of snow.