In the Delicate Hours

In the delicate hours after sleep is upon the body
like a mistral at midnight

let the night tell her stories
coaxing love from the belly of the constant darkness.

I have placated sadness for so long
I had forgotten what gratitude does for the white snows,
brilliant cardinals in pairs at the feeder,
and warm coffee in a single press.

Each word of comfort,
verbatim from the deepest winter heart,
whispering a secret code at the doorway
to a society that forgives everything.