Shelter

in the woodstove

the fire licks iron dies slow

the tea is thin and cold. I am

thinking of kindness, for you

dear world and all your

purpling bruises. I would

fill the teakettle again

for you, throw an extra log

on the down-dimming light

pull your fraying form

from the bottomless zero-kelvin

that surrounds this tiny

planet. I would kiss you.

I have blankets. see how cold

it is outside, through the

stuck window frozen rain like

needles or bullets from outer

space the wind tearing its contorted

muscle around the corner of

the house seeking entry and

starvation. my frail little oasis

for you, tender world. my limited

hands and slow smile. my heart

futile and small as it is barely

enough but sufficient

to open the door.