White rime
on every stick,
on every bough,
like the first light
that illuminates
the downy branches
of a woman waking,
under a dome so blue
it’s almost black,
and behind that,
infinity.
How the whole
world is remade
beneath a fresh blanket
of snow, how it softens
yesterday’s questions,
and the body blessed
with sweet opening
turns toward
another morning.
All the things I thought
I wanted have flown away
like butterflies, and what lands
upon me now are petals
light as music, the scent
of November clouds before
the coming snow, the echo
of the children in the other
room, making their own
designs, all these passing things,
how they fill the night
with so much generosity,
a heart could float away
like the sea, a borrowed word,
a letter, a lover’s kiss.
