I saw you last night,
Frozen, searching an amputated
Winter wonderland.
Why survive, if survival is all it is?
Your lone wandering
Is a stubborn cycle of breathing,
Snuffling for other weaker unfortunates,
Beating the snow, without pause,
With a frosted, panting heart.
All the pity in the world does you no good,
For in the morning light,
When you are caught by the sun’s open gaze,
You will not show your face.
You’ll go to your well-worn places,
Below the tree line,
As cautiously as centuries.
You know that if you scavenge too much
For love or warmth,
The kindness in another’s touch may kill you.
So you’ll stay alert,
Won’t you, my friend.
Forgive me, but
Perhaps you should look for love
Among the dying leaves
On those useless branches.
You could steal the warmth of
Their own last breath.
Or maybe investigate thoroughly,
The possibilities of winter’s thud.
That abandoned bone may contain
A scrap of marrow.
That last lick of love
Could be the salt to sustain you.
I know outside the snow lies content,
A simple gossamer stillness.
Even inside, the house sits safely
Cradling its good cheer.
Yet for you the air pricks like needles,
Welting your eyes
And hammering your heart.
To me, yours is a futile existence,
A switchback of ignorance and pain.
Your life may be a sounding of your spirit,
Ancient perhaps,
But to what end?
Your only chance is
To head above the tree line,
And fall into the sun.
Tumble into first light,
You should be the one,
Who jumps into spaces
Where others fear to be.
And there hunt openly
And use no hunter’s guile.
For love is not for scavengers
Fleeing in the night.
It is for those with bloody hearts
And blinded eyes,
Caught out by the light.
