White Winter Morning

Sapling-deep
in crusted freeze,
planted immoveable through
the weight of miles,
freezing miles,
I kneel, monolithic
and insignificant,
statuary on the edge
of the middle
of the creeping chaos of winter:
politics of bones and ice.

The snow becomes me,
complements me,
suggests that I sleep.
The gradated depth
of grey night-time clouds
throws around me
blankets of still warm
air, growing in temperature.
The heat is palming me,
tightening its grip
around my crisp bones,
a hell of comfort.
I could sleep now,
I could sleep...

And the trees,
ever-green,
emerge in morning light
with unconcern
in crystal robes,
and look over my
still
frozen
body.