Winter

The cold makes an easy metaphor

(the dozens of black & blue & yellow finches
pecking bits from the dark soil solid with a thin frost

the way wind knocks the house and steals through the cracks

the cracked lips, heels, and fingertips

the single file herd of nine long-legged deer,
alarmed by the closing of our car’s doors,
stampeding slowly & carefully up
the slippery slope of a man-made hill
in the silhouette of early February sun
slumping gently in the west
where is it already dark

the frozen owl—wings, as stiff as talons & beak,
outstretched—with puffs of downy fuzz blowing
as if still beaten by a heart)

for our losing; the way we feel,
both a going and a coming each year
as the days hit their shortest, pass, &
promise again to lengthen, lighten,
and finally thaw.