A Winter Equality

The bare branches of a scraggly oak,
twigs seeming to mutter among themselves,
reach into the cold air as though seeking some arborescent
epiphany, some hint of promise, some reason to draw
more life from deep and warmer soil.

Nodes of readiness adorn filaments of hope,
thin wisps of tree, almost indistinguishable
from the amorphous gray of the sky, which
mills about restlessly in altostratus clumps.

Glass, I have read, is a slow liquid:
over decades, the bottoms of windows grow thicker.
I go to the window and touch the single pane,
which accepts my finger with just
a tiny sting: frigid surprise, and a quick,
small halo of fog.

We all want something
we can’t have right now: sky, tree,
air, window and I. And now a cardinal
has suddenly landed, slightly bobbing
on a skinny branch. She stares at me vacantly
from her resplendent dullness.

I’m caught behind glass, craving
warmer reasons for living: faith, growth.
I grow weary, waiting,
equal with winter’s everything.


~ 02/01/05