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.