Winter

Couched on crimson cushions,
pink bleeds gold

and red spills into one’ s heart.
Broad leather keeps time,

calibrating different hours
in different zones

unaware of the grammar
that makes sense.

Only random woofs and snores
of two distant dogs

on a very cold night
clears fog that is unresolved.

New plants wait for new heat —
to grow, to mature.

An old cane recliner contains
poetry for peace — woven

text keeping comfort in place.
But it is the impatience of want

that keeps equations unsolved.
Heavy, translucent, vaporous,

split red by mother tongues —
winter’ s breath is pink.