A poem


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,

I opened.