In this mammalian winter—
  feral eyes patrolling the porch,
    eaves absorbed with gallantries of icicles—
you and I house the cats, beggars at dawn.

The year lies open in packets of seed—
  and I sing of plots and paths,
the gist of spring, all to please you.

When evening sifts into orange light,
  a wind uproots our secrets.
Flurries billow and collapse over the field.

Snow dancers flex the air, mingling
  laces and jade into dark, stretching
    —long into longing—
a fleece for the newborn night.