Morning light comes late
she puts cinnamon in her coffee
sits down and knows.
she knows. she can feel it.
a soft cloak of fresh snow
has covered the earth
while she was dreaming of
riding her bicycle in the rain.
Sounds dampen, the pale morning moon blurs, she thinks of icebergs, blizzards, glaciers how dire and heavy and foreboding
or, how blue and breathy and sublime.
this is not a plain day.
Though the wind skirls she puts on
her coat, boots, mittens
smells the cold air, walks to the river
where children are whooping in the
magic and ravens watch
from their driftwood perch
We’ll get sunburned on the ice! (someone says)
Maybe in Australia or Bali,
but not here.
She stays warm by
pushing kids on sleds
carrying a baby on the trail
This is not an ordinary day
in all of its ordinariness. She shuts the cabin door. Snowflakes swirl.
Light leaves early.
She stays warm by lighting candles,
by imagining a sky painted bronze,
by gazing at the fullness
of a winter’s moon,
her heart a clear river: deep
and gloriously, complete.