Now appears slow winter without a fire anywhere in the heart.
The wine tastes of an Autumn gone, or early snow.
The vine growers rest by the hearth,
done with harvesting “earth’s blood.”
This wine, made from the wings of butterflies
and the petals of dandelions.
This is for your waiting.
Love has brought you to these rooms where you sit and smoke
cigarette after cigarette.
The hounds wait for you to release them,
and the fireplace embers grow cold and grey.
Snow falls through the chimney, landing in soft ash.
Out into the winter night air where the moon is kind and gold,
You step through the snow barefoot, towards the blue spruce trees
where even now the birds are shifting in their nests,
aware that something that has not settled comfortably, that something is out of order and unnatural.
Aware perhaps that love has flown
to a more exotic land,
away from you.