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At Winter’s Door

Shorn of its leaves, the birch tree weeps,
thin branches quiet in a lull
when the bruised sky shades to stone.
Cold air presses, absolutely still
as a premonition, or an eye.

I walk through the garden of the dead,
the swath of shadows growing.
Amid all the rush and fury,
I try to feel time settle around me
lightly—like snow, like dust.

I envy the bear her cave
and the frog his pond bottom.
Dusk reveals the moon in her various guises.
I want to linger in this darkness
with its brilliant swath of stars.

Even as the light returns,
I need the night's reprieve.