Thursday Poem - At Sunrise

At sunrise on winter days

our trail is through newly fallen white,

  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