I spend the morning watching pine trees conduct a winter symphony. The last of January howls. Every window is white and ice builds on the inside sills. The furnace hums to keep the house warmhearted. There is no where to go and no way to get there.
We are starved of the sun and obliterated by sub-zero winds. Snow adds to itself, unceasing, rising into new territory. Naked bulbs press into their deep sleep. Irrelevant of which way I write or to whom, my ruminations birth one manifestation.
taking turns on pine branches
to feed –
what I can taste
I drink hot chocolate
and it hurts my stomach
I keep my favorite beer on hand
despite the allergy
And I pin you to the wall in the stairwell
so my eyes can ask
for a kiss
for the gateway of dreams
for the manifestation of what is always present
despite the ruinous fruit
because something is ruined, yes?
I am this, this