Poem of the Month

Midwinter

 

Boots left for the night

beneath the coffee table,

summer’s stones abandoned

on the sill, a time of ice and shale

 

The elemental feast of fire

ends in ash,

and deep sleep, when it comes

innocent of dreams

 

Come a new morning, ink

springs across a page

Pure sacrament

is always silent.

 

The animals, foraging on night feet,

the eloquence of all the true things.