Aubade #2

So another January morning with
that grayish light that seeps into the house
and warms nothing.
Dormant trees rattle their bones
outside the window
and dirty snow clings to corners.
No reason to rise up
now except that always thing:
always feet on floor, stretch,
face the water, the coffee, the world.

So another January night rolls us into bed--
tucked up against chill and hope,
we hibernate as long as we can
and dream of gold, showering
across the wooden floor
like honey, beaming
into our lives like grace.