Midwinter

Even shadows
are more welcome
than silence.

In the enveloping
dark of 3 a.m.
the pulse of the living pauses.

Scattered are the leaves of
thought upon a frozen ground
of wonder and confusion. Snow itself freezes.

Oh the clawing of the cat
who thinks it's time
for canned food.

The whisper of her fur against my face.
The wound once again open.

Risk is courage, courage risk.
And the lover is the love.

Thank you Keats, and Yeats, and
oh sister, mother, lonely Emily,
who showed me that finite infinity
lives between words.

And yes, thank you those
who sat around the fire
spinning epic like a hooded cloak.