On Rising

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.

Butterflies

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.