Lavender air sifts

through pine trees

cold as the silverware

left on the back porch

overnight. Winter is 

here, the season has

changed, and the light 

has changed, and the

temperature too.

Layers of chill like river

sediment, like somebody’s

nose against your nose,

like a traitor’s kiss, lips 

dry, cheeks chafed,

earlobes berried 

as the lavender air,

clanging with goose calls

and church bells, hollow

and cold as the spoon 

on the back deck, as the

hoarfrost on the handrails,

as the saplings and sentinel

trees, backlit, starkly naked

completely exposed above

the sleeping groundhog —

oblivious in his burrow,

of the season changing,

of you changing —

knowing only that

now is the time to curl

up before being reborn.