—from All the Way Through

Branches twist in February’s wind,
rain usurped by snow,
dew turning into crystalled coins.
Cardinals color the feeder,
pulse in the gloom – their chirrups
echoing the yard and sage grass
as sun sets. Each tree branch frosted,
the choir of evening descends
into silence. Ice like braille lines
the entrance, cobwebs of moonlight
sifting spirits still tucked in crevices.
Maybe our loss is the miracle.
A shaman somewhere etches names
in the cave of the dead.