The dead of winter was generous when
he laid his weight upon me. Hide-bound
fingers scratch against winter’s skin,
a young sun’s fire teases through
the frost of morning. The darkness does
not yield it’s shadow so easily.
Hunger hunts at the edges, sharpening
the seasons resolve. I am a poor man,
my hands have curled around their emptiness,
growing accustomed to what can be kept.

.