winter dance

God, I love the crispness of these winter days

when the sun cracks blonde chinks in the clouds,

sharply defining the edges of tree limbs,

howling to the trembling buds:

Sleep well, I'll be here awhile.

I love when the dancing branches

tremor against the sky

so pale with its fighting to be blue, when

I see each object truly -

each twig itself, performing each step

for this moment of my watching, this movement,

in the wind's harsh yelp and cry,

where I am finally allowed to be:

I suddenly exist, pulling my coat around myself,

the wind a knife

cutting the ears from my head;

I watch the dance and am one with the wind,

listening to what is the invisible.