Mourning Star

The pink sky and the mourning star

gaze coldly at us below

the roof so catch your breath

before it freezes

while standing in the snow

that lingers

in the cold garden where the cardinal perches

on the yew tree branch that hits the house

that you never did trim

it so now it hosts a nest to protect

and provide shelter

from the frost, but not the kind

that gathers around my heart

so that it’s hard to see the dawn’s dim glow

twinkle in through my lids

now heavy, now slow, now closed.

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