January Below Zero

Snarl at the brilliant night sky,
the moon a ball teasing the dog
mad with gnats gnawing at his ears
and eyes so tired of paws that scratch
deeply into the soul of all of us.

The magic of the woods, gnome-like play,
is lost in the still cold of January
below zero, hiding,
waiting as if we didn't know
the depths of sorrow
as the temperature dips low.

Watch the corners of this dark place.
We shift nervously, expect something sinister
and we whisper to each other
a plan so far away from this day.

In the next chapter
we'll gather stones at the threshold
of the hereafter, sweet as a hand
around a cup of hot tea,
steam rising and cooling
on my face before
little things, words
slip like love
from between my lips.