Cold Winter Sun

You are comfortable with your darkness-

the one that comes with being born

and then growing
a big heart.

You are not resigned or martyred,
but have acknowledged and befriended this siege
of black birds that preys on us,
even when sunny Dixie has turned her face away.

It’s a big empty one.
The unknown,
the cold winter sun,
the purposeful scattering of bare branches,
the creak of the wood stove opening when no one else is there,
waking up alone and impermanent,
becoming covered in cats, relenting to that.

Sitting on the back porch,
coffee and birdsong sacred rituals.
Roosters, shotguns,
Latin bouncy house birthday rager.
Choreographed tools,
spread out and dancing on the floor of the garage,
the low rush of cars on Hull Street.

There is enough room for a sideways glance
and a dirty smile amid the short days,
long nights,
oil paints,
and pencil stubs.
I taste the complex
and thoughtful drifting music
of your acceptance of this reality.

A relaxed and brave surrender
that makes it easier to breathe.

Safe and alive,
I’m wanting for nothing
more than the sunlight slanting across your dark eyelashes,
steaming coffee cup,
and close face.

Art by Peter Sugarman