The Constitution of Winter

The constitution of winter
jingles in the trees
at the calm dawn.

Birds whose flight
keeps them constant in the cold,
twitter and chirp
with red squirrels
like shining crystals of light
and sound captured
in the moment
between sorting small logs
from heavy oak
into the sling I carry
to my hearth and the heat
that warms my belly and breath
where I sit
contemplating
the body
and the boundaries
of the mind.

In the quiet of my breath
I can see myself
sitting plain skinned
with no adornments.
I am stripped to the shell
of this dwelling
and only the fullness
of the spectrum
can enter safely
in peace.

So stark
this familiar
brilliance,
I blink
until my eyes water
tears of vibrant joy

and words trace the outline
of a smile,
the darkness
of an excited pupil,
the fine hairs
brushed with desire
at the curve of the neck,

and the memory
of the sound
of your voice
undoes me

as I follow the flight
of a smoky Junco
into the pines

where the meaning
of truth
in January’s expanding
white wave
is often found.