Winter Blues

It is winter

and again we are numb with cold.

Inside a rime of ice

our hearts have become brittle and friable

with the weight of ghosts and sorrow

We are lost, in mittens, hats,

the absent tread of boots upon the stair,

in light so thin it is anorexic

with yearning to be elsewhere.

We breathe in slowed unison

with spruce and pine,

the speechlessness of poplar

which renders us inarticulate.

As winter moves between us

and illumination

we want to believe

that this eclipse of feeling

is a temporary aberration.

We want to believe earth will pause

in its gradual continental drift

long enough that we may find our bearings

or at least discover what bearing this may have

on the reasons for the shudder which moves

along ancient spinal fault lines.

We want --

but cannot finish the sentence.

We are mute:

language, our survival tool,

has fallen into disuse.

Wind searches for its voice

underneath the porch,

below the eaves,

but no one is listening.

No one hears owl shift

with each furtive sound in the underbrush;

no one hears the crack of heart

in each act

of letting go.