Night Medicine

This could be the night 

before warmth 

returns

oh, cold still

feels like death 

cold has hold of you;

the night of bitter medicine

cold sheets

and raw hands. All day. . .

You toiled in the pelting rain;

You opened your mouth to sing:

All the day

words fell out

no music came

and

your back ached 

into the shovel and 

the stone.

Home to an empty hearth 

and winter

having stayed too late

gloats over your cold supper

Only crows flew this day

and one owl guards your night,

her silent wings folded over her heart.

She will not fly, nor you.

You will not die 

not yet

though your bones want 

to escape your skin

and sleep calls like the night's drug.

This might be the night before 

the ice crack and

green break through.

This is the night to toss and moan.

Tomorrow might be cold, 

but know this:

everything you feel

is you, alive.