I have that late January feeling
when endless fields of snow could make me go mad.
The more I try to stay calm, the edgier I become.
Even my husband’s breathing annoys me.
Crumbs annoy me, too, in bed, on the floor.
I want to throw out all the plants that aren’t blooming,
and invite strangers in for food and wine.
And yet, when I trudge out into the cavernous whiteness
that makes me feel so jumpy and hopeless—
when I wander until my blood runs cold
and my breath surrounds me with a dense, wintry blur—
I wake to what January is: ice and snow,
earth that bears it, winds that carry it,
dry bloody berries and skeletal trees, more beautiful
empty of leaves because I can see their bones,
and trace my own bone self from root to branch
to fallen leaf—and stand assured:
I’m lost, sun-deprived, sated with shadow,
part of the news of the universe.