framed by a window,
a section of winter's dim sky
seems neither stingy nor prodigal now.
half rain, winter mist,
christens the sky,
against which water-slicked roofs
and the brittle silhouettes of dark trees rise.
there is such necessity to name:
the mind cannot tolerate
the cleanliness of the thing.
it is easy to wonder about the sky.
what do the arthritic hook and jag
of a bare tree mean,
and what does a steel sky signify?
clean surface, deeply cracked,
or perhaps the pale background
for the great tragedy of a tree?
today the sky spreads a pale gray wing
to enable a dark bird to circle
possibly hurt and alone,
looking for the fact of its nest,
but I am warm,
as I sit at a table cluttered
with coffee cups, books, and terra cotta pots,
whose earth contains
ivy, mint, pine, jade...