Winter, Moving Still

You want to believe nothing

stays awake through the freeze.

But you, who need a coat,

a cabin, a fire burning

in the stove, down

bag and pillow,

you’re the one who burns

something else to survive.

Ask why.

Your answer, an accounting

of small things: vole tracks,

rose galls, frost-shriveled berries

still on the branch, crunch of snow,

ice-crackle, the shush of a sheep’s jaw

chewing the last browned grass.

Your stolen,

illuminated breath clouds

the cone of headlamp.

Put out the lantern,

let the stove-tick

sing you to sleep.

Its song is younger than the owl’s,

who is younger yet than moonlight

and the shifting lights in the sky.

They all came before you,

and while you sleep,

eyes closed, they keep

always moving.