It is the eye
of winter, this slit
that lets in light.
Stones crack and breastplates
fall when fire speaks.
A shuddering nor’easter pastes
snow on every ledge, and steam’s
recurring breath uncoils
from the sea. What is it
to say that light has entered earth? The dead
of winter rise with open mouths, mock
soft limbs of early spring. But listen,
here’s what’s true. He touched,