Winter Song

Solitude is a gift
Say it to yourself
under a canopy
of phony stars

Think of Lily in
her old season, living
with three pale cats
Her mind a lavender wash

Think of the man floating spray mums
at the feet of the colossus
before a day spent staring
at the wall

On the great ceiling of plates
and grates, a single leaf scrapes by
as the clear poison singes its path
from nostril to deep brain

The winter is not too sad, say it
then sing it
from your new pod, your new fig
made of glass