The pond is frozen over, fountain bubbling beneath a crown of thick ice. A friend brings food and a red poinsettia. She tells me bluebirds have returned to the river. This garden is a dance of sparrows, chickadees, finches, juncos ~ and each day, a visit from the hawk.
I shop for long underwear and thick socks. The dogs shiver on their beds. This sky opens so wide, so blue at midday ~ but the days are narrowing down. Why now, in this quarter-moon, pre-solstice darkness, does my old body hum with forgotten desire?
a brush of cotton