Oh, the wintry conundrum of poise:
do I love you or not?
do I place the tea kettle on the stove
and make love to your body,
or leave through the door into the whirl
of bitter snows made sweeter than their Skies
and indulge in your soul?
Finding myself emptied of all love,
emptied of all reason, in softest tears
before the fireplace of praise,
lost to the vault of the heavens,
vault of the floors: Oh, I
in my penitent dungeon
have refrained from loving you,
even as the child inside
should be debarred from love outside,
from the Kingdom of Dawn
made impossible by snows
of the feathers of Angels,
flutter as they do with their eyes
and soar with their souls.
after the snow