Holding Their Breath for Words

As if sleeplessness grants some sort of warped prestige
I wobble out of meddlesome blankets, the scaffolding of warmth
when the thermostat plunges from daytime highs
into dreaming lows for slumber

and saving the planet.

In bare feet and my softest red robe
I dare to plough into the traffic of another day
with hot tea, bindled sweet with raw gratuity
and half cream

toward a poem that gathers angels
and senses the world with a heart
drunk with love punch
and hope for something better.

The clear sky and winter stars
call my mind out the kitchen window
where snow and still trees wait
holding their breath for words.