Winter Comments

Couched on crimson cushions,
 pink bleeds gold

and red spills into one's heart.
 Broad leather keeps time,

calibrating different hours
 in different zones

unaware of the grammar
 that makes sense.

Only random woofs and snores
 of two distant dogs

on a very cold night
 clears fog that is unresolved.

New plants wait for new heat —
 to grow, to mature.

An old cane recliner contains
 poetry for peace — woven

text keeping comfort in place.
 But it is the impatience of want

that keeps equations unsolved.
 Heavy, translucent, vaporous,

split red by mother tongues —
 winter's breath is pink.
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