Here is the pitch and swirl of winter:
the raw north wind, the bloodless thorn.
Water in its wake churns to jagged slate,
snow keels upward from the mountains.
I’m staying in. No sense shouldering out
against this weather, when my cabin,
my quiet ship—built of two-by-sixes
and twelve-inch siding—grants me cover.
Best time to take custody of love,
having all I need, though never all
I want. Husband, give me your hand.
What we have left to build with
isn’t wood, but air—
this space resting between our fingers
like absent stone
of the ancient temples;
our fingers in column and frieze
as if holding the morning’s fervent storm
in pale illumination; half-gift,
this portico, this life
more beautiful for the surrounding ruin.
(From Violet Transparent, FutureCycle Press, 2010)
