The Colding

Gnarled branches, clutching, seeking any heat,

Stark-webbed across a grayling dawn;

What sky I saw was glacial; summer gone,

Reflecting only winter at its feet.

And nothing moved.

Gray mice and moles beneath the snow,

All huddled, grasping any warmth they could

To keep the virgin hearts alive.

Throughout the wood

The hoary breath of chickadees hung low

Around the birds, like misty shields against the cold.

By noon the day was old.