How could I open myself
to the string that vibrates
in the wind, and stay unperturbed
by the clamor of crows
whose cries summon the cold
and the curtain of dark
for wild drifts of snow?
Tonight, ice covers the roads
and burdens the roofs of houses
in our towns and I want to look
for any trace of tenderness: a curl
escaping from a chimney, the soapy
exhaust from a laundromat’s vents,
the small wet circles with dots
for eyes and a dash for a mouth,
drawn by a child’s gloved hand
in the back of a car slowed by traffic
on the interstate.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.