5 am. One-quarter past.
Distant chimes inform me this.
A bell peal knells the mist.
And sunlight’ s
not yet bludgeoning.
But some light gets blood going.
Last night it was snowing
and now
every path’ s a pall.
Though mine the only footfalls
at this hour of awe. Above
hangs a canopy of needle leaf.
Below, the season’ s
mean deceit —
that everything stays
white and clean.
It doesn’ t, of course,
but I wish it. My prayers
are green with this intent,
imploring winter wrens
to trill and begging scuttling bucks
come back.
There’ s something that I lack.
A wryneck
bullet-beaks a branch.
His woodworm didn’ t have a chance.
What I miss,
I’ ve never had.
But I am not a ghost.
I am a guest.
And life is thirst,
at best.
So do not strike me, Heart.
I am, too, tinder.
I’ m flammable
as birch bark, even damp.
Blue spruce, bee-eater —
be sweeter to me.
Let larksong shudder
to its January wheeze,
but gift these hands a happiness
just once.
It is half passed.
And I am cold.
Another peal has tolled.
I’ ve told the sum of my appeals.
I need not watch for fox.
They do not congregate at dawn.
But I would,
were I one.