eight

The bitterness of winter fills our mouths

with hungry prayers. In reply the silence splits

with a never-ending murderous howl. The long knives

of the wind are voracious, stealing fire and flesh.

Page by page the holy book curls black, sacrilege

to coax heat from the frozen heart of any tree.

When all we can do is beg the wolves answer

with the red maw of mercy

.