January

Air bites, presses.
Cold cajoles,
rushes, sears, dares
the little garland tree
stripped against
an ever-darkening
night. Stars twinkle
blue, cool, far,
bare promises.
Impossible white
tips evergreens,
blankets dead
leaves, eases to
depressions of
animal feet—
squirrel, rabbit,
racoon, deer.
Bamboo, dry, rustles,
casts shadows long.
No song of light
seems probable
around these winter
corners, streets laid
with ice. But dawn
will come, surprise
embrace, shocking
day to surer hope.

Shut

Sometimes I have no words to say to You. My soul is shut up tight like the buds which set in Fall. Set, layer upon layer in a tight knob of overlapping cloaks, against advancing winter. Layer upon layer.

And so I sit, as if upon a barren branch, waiting for words.

The snows play at my edges, the winds toss and howl. The world is full of sound and fury, but my soul is wrapped in darkness, layer upon layer, silent, waiting.