What is it that your books say of the winter?
Do the words speak of hunger and wolves,
the need for shelter and how to build it?
Can they strengthen your hands
and straighten your back?

With a match we could buy ourselves an hour.
Think on that before you turn another page.

The world, a cave,
a cacophony of echoes,
the work of voices and hands–
monsters and messiahs,
shadow puppets on a wall.

Egocentric projections,
candles in mirrors–
a million choirs in separate circles
singing selfhood in a round.

To break the chain is to risk salvation.
The devil’s name is doubt.
Curse my ears should I hear from others,
damn my eyes should they stray from light.

Crows circle over windrows
on black wings wet with dew,
seeking seed among stalk corpses
waiting to be baled.

One last feast
before the culling,
a final bite before the cut
of coming cold.

Sister fair,
Can’t you hear the storm a’ comin’
don’t you feel the touch of winter
on the fingers of the wind?

Brother strong,
Don’t you know the tide is turning,
and the weight of rising water
will be more than we can bear?

All Along,
we indulge a pleasant blindness
as we tend to fenced-in gardens,
ignoring heavy weather,
pulling harmless weeds.

I’m sick to death of morning:
Rude ringtone in a loop,
a smartphone challenge,
“Go ahead and break me, fucker,
go ahead and find the snooze.”

Into stark night frosted black with fate we slip,
conditioned to deny the western progress of the sun.
Awake but for a while to wonder,
we fan our fleeting passions to flame
and embrace each day in willful ignorance,
blind to the inevitable—

Love’s sweet prelude to loss.