5 am. One-quarter past.
Distant chimes inform me this.

A bell peal knells the mist.
And sunlight's

not yet bludgeoning.
But some light gets blood going.

Last night it was snowing
and now

every path's a pall.
Though mine the only footfalls

at this hour of awe. Above
hangs a canopy of needle leaf.

Below, the season's
mean deceit—

that everything stays
white and clean.

It doesn't, of course,
but I wish it. My prayers

are green with this intent,
imploring winter wrens

to trill and begging scuttling bucks
come back.

There's something that I lack.
A wryneck

bullet-beaks a branch.
His woodworm didn't have a chance.

What I miss,
I've never had.

But I am not a ghost.
I am a guest.

And life is thirst,
at best.

So do not strike me, Heart.
I am, too, tinder.

I'm flammable
as birch bark, even damp.

Blue spruce, bee-eater—
be sweeter to me.

Let larksong shudder
to its January wheeze,

but gift these hands a happiness
just once.

It is half passed.
And I am cold.

Another peal has tolled.
I've told the sum of my appeals.

I need not watch for fox.
They do not congregate at dawn.

But I would,
were I one.