Direction — an ache in the bones,
the want of a hand on a loved one’s hip.
Night. The lingering hieroglyphics
of snuffed out candles.
The coal-glow of a spent wood fire.
The last gust-creaks of structure —
the passing storm’s sotto voce grace notes
played to stinging perfection —
while out there
the snow-ghosted land
holds its breath,
mum tongue to the roof of its mouth.
All around, we feel it,
the shaken will of bendable things
shutting down, slouching to half-shadow.
Wind, time, the generosity of spirit,
one’s ability to whisper or sigh —
huddling now and hushed. Nothing
and imagine the morning
and the announcement that must come —
a blush of light, the tip of a branch
rising against the white weight,
a cautious step at the edge of the field,
some soft, low, wild cry
that tells us
it’s all right to resume.