Breath becomes ice fog,
and I count empty nests
in the speckled alders
to stay warm,
rub my fingers like tinder
and listen for the bird song
to slice the frozen air
and fall in chimes.
I fall in love
with frost-flaked catkins
by the footbridge
and stamp my toes,
wondering when the streak
of pink will kiss the glass
of the pond
and break it,
watch
till the ridge catches fire
and the light descends
like oil on Aaron’s beard,
pooling in my hands.