In the threshold of the year, I traveled through strange weathers.
The wetly rippling hills of Pennsylvania
could have been Ireland, or Scotland–they were emerald
in the Rust Belt, vibrant in December rain. As vibrant as
my lover’s words, his heart opening unexpected, how
suddenly and sonorous his whispers of affection came and went, and
I learned to love them, and the silence in between. In Vermont,
I saw lightning flash, and thunder, and then
came morning snow-kissed and languorous as I recalled how their
mouths, like little flames, had lapped me clean. This is my life.
Sometimes I can feel it rising through me like steam off water.
Its heat roils around me in a luscious pelt of winter fur.
As the light refracts in ice, and sings itself into a thousand other songs,
I’m learning there is nothing wrong with me; there was never
anything wrong with me, and it’s not hard for this cup to fill up and spill over
and pour herself into the earth with hot, abundant magic.