Six Kinds of Loneliness

The night before the brightest moon of the new year
I am six kinds of lonely.
I have carried armfuls of nothing
into the center of the old farmhouse
where laughter used to live,
doused the heap with love for all that emptiness,
and in the blink of that moment
a spark flashes into flame
and everything I ever imagined
falls to ash at the feet of this raw kindness.

I am so still tonight
that the door of my aching
stands open in the white cold
of so many stars.
My blood rushes into the frozen earth wounded
and I am rooted as oak and white pine
to this place of fear
and longing for another death
one breath by beating breath
at a time.

In this silence
you walk out of the woods
and stand so close
I can feel the heat of your body
radiating on my face.
Your eyes, bright as burning coals,
singe the ground where I stand.
I pull away from this flame,
where trouble touched me so tenderly,
and the ghost of you is gone.

My feet are slipping on the icy path,
and I must now endure
the scraping sound
of a single howl at this enormous
and empty sky.