As our warm, tranquil space is invaded
By the coiled threat of fickle February,
Boot prints are stamped in the snow—
Leading nowhere as we go in circles,
Chasing stars we cannot catch now.
Stark branches are broken off for fuel,
Weeping pearls of ice that cannot quench thirst.
Cups overturn, holding emptiness here,
A longing space that wants filling from all directions;
A darkness that cannot be illuminated.
There is no more quick sun returning,
There is only us, kneeling beneath the wind,
Crumpled beneath the weight of the long night.
