hot winter

there is a hot kind of
winter I hope for

where even though we`re miserable
to the bones and hungry
and broke,

even though the crack in the window
whistles whenever the snow goes
sideways from the wind,

even though we can feel our cells
dying out, one by one, in the fast heat
of the fireplace ,

even despite all the dark,
encroaching dark,

there is a kind of hot winter where
things get do, where husbands and wives
are born and fast destroyed,

where we do not hope, that we might act,
where we do not speak, that we might finally
understand one another.

there is a kind of hard warm winter
sleep that grows us into warriors,
soldiers of immaculate love,

reaching down into the snowbank,
easy as if it were still water,
and drawing out a pale blue rose.


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