Thursday Poem - At Sunrise

at sunrise on winter days

our trail is through newly fallen white,

and every footfall a waxing moon

muffled footsteps rising

through snow-drowned spruces,

hearts beating along in time

goldenrod and milkweed,

great spruces weighted under snow,

all nod in early greeting

ghost choirs of summer grosbeaks
sing above our heads, icicles forming

along rooflines as we pass by

winter rounds the village out,

smoothing the contours of house and street,
spinning deserts out of snow

in this morning softness, I know myself

at last — perfect, still and so complete

nothing abandoned or left behind.

Cate