I brush away snow to watch the pulse of water
beneath ice. We’re allowed to name the stars 

more than once. Look at the naked sky in January.
The light we’re blind to at midday travels toward us,

broken by a cone on an alder branch, only to become
shadow. My heart sits impatiently in the basket 

of my ribs, reminding me that not long ago
the pierced dark showed ships at sea 

a way home.  


Poetry