These long nights etch frost
across our window panes.
We are the slow, tired reply,
heavy with winter’s sleep.
Let’s draw the cloak of longing–
curl into our hollow spaces,
inspire the waning heat of
our own, too-shallow breath.
There’s in us yet, a reaching.
Limbs promising new growth
itch under stubborn bark–
breathless for season’s change.
Sap whispers in our branches.
Murmurs wake us in the night.
Rumors stirring wild imagination,
hope kindles these dry bones.
We’ll soon wake from slumber,
bathe our faces in the morning.
Our weary nights are numbered;
–here comes the blessed light.
Pen's Ink 