Hibernate

An afternoon

deep in the throes

of winter

a soft blanket

strewn onto

a plaid sofa

in a room quiet enough

to hear the moaning winter

the gathering storm plots

each flake of drifting snow

each drop of frozen rain

spurs the howling wind upon windowsills

shout out to bitter days

season of dormancy

flinging itself

on the north corner

of a frame house

now all birds have flown

no place in this cold

these early days

brief as an uncertain bloom

dawn and cease

with the ticking of

the old mahogany clock in the corner

and if splendor comes

it is white and crisp

dissolving the totality of

life's mourning

into a cold, brisk rain