again winter

Think kindly of winter

which has written itself

into our bones,

carved our brittle edges

into something distinctly

northern.

In the middle of the heart

its blue flame

dies slowly into ache,

melts.

The Inuit have many words

for snow;

the one we have

encompasses them all,

inadequately.

Snow,

shorthand for degrees

and shapes of coldness.

From the deep north of dream,

the ears pick up wind-song,

the eyes withdraw

from an overabundance

of white on white.

The tongue drinks in

a thousand snowflakes

in a gulp.

We live on hope

and the belief

it can save us

from all ice-bound

starvations of the soul.