Rising Early In Winter

I stood in the doorway, in the dark, and encouraged my soul to rise.

One foot on the floor, I said, and now the other, and she complied

but barely. And the warmth of the chimney against the wall eased

the cold from my bones, as I eased my way into waking. Outside

the moon pinned itself on the tips of naked trees and the smoke

from my bone-warming chimney traced the place in the dawn-dimmed sky

where the weight of heavy arctic air held it down. This far—but no further.

The whisper-tweet questions of gathered goldfinches drew my gaze

inviting the cold to scuttle down the front of my zippered coat.

But their heartfull-questions: Sweet?—Sweet?—Sweet? were too tender

to ignore, and worth the chill of my untucked chin.

And I started my car in the cold, relieved that so many small things,

bits and bobs of a wild-working machine,

were still intact,

still enough to carry

me into the day.