Winter

The winter day is puffed up
Silence under the sun,
And proud
As a mountain,
Stretching back over time,
Heavy with ice and denouement.

The sky is short
And exhausted, 
Laying wide and flat
Across the tundra
In fat Santa's lap. 

The last wink washes away
Into frozen puddles
And sluggish tracks of the day.
Fox-fire glade,
And fulgurate of tallest evergreen.

Or shelters in the night
The choirs of comfort
And survival in the snow.

Here is a home,
Glowing.
Warm, compacted
Hearts pressed close.
Bright lights encased in ice.
Blur of frozen moisture
And breath of shimmers,
Sometimes sexy,
Swirling,
Settles on frosted windows. 

Outside is cold, it breaks
Branches and bones.
The bird's bones break
Beneath the moon.

The winter night weaves looming towers.
Forgotten entries
Are found draped with snow.
Inside of silence,
The winter silence,
Is a great distance.
So cold.
So alone.
So deep secured by the cold.
And shivers,
Bitter.
Looks on lonely stars.
Gnaws on delicate things in the dark.
And admits to itself that it loves the fine air.
And is happy.
And it dies.