This Morning

The grey marbled sky

fluid, like oil on water

drifting past treetops

woody fingers grasping at nothing 

into the dull morning sky

 it will soon be the darkest day

 the longest night.

The depths of winter solstice 

come round once more to coccoon

us in its dark wrap of hibernation.

We are shut indoors except on occasional brights days

when we venture out for crisp walks 

sunlight straining to make an impression.

Logs stacked dry as death

awaiting consumption by fire,

 heat their final gift, and light

 yellow flickering against shadow.

We snuggle below warm bedcovers, 

hold hands and watch the sky show, 

clouds dancing now in unison with the wind.

It will be warm this winter.