Breathless
This morning, minus 12 degrees,
the furnace’s exhaust almost vertical,
high as the Spruce beside the house –
mouthy, moist braid of cumulous giving up
as little as possible to a dry and navy sky.
This morning, all things close-held.
Not a bird on the suet feeder.
No sign of plow or trash or cable
Truck. Not even the small dog
Retreats to the house next door.
This morning, I am thankful for all that remains –
the holidays, closed and almost out of view,
some large flurries floating past the window,
the moisture held up in small, buffered drifts
Between each pane.
