After the Snow

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

falling, shreds

of the feathers of Angels,

flutter as they do with their eyes

and soar with their souls.



after the snow