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.