winter-thick honey
sea salt in a cracked jar
taigas of frost rooting down
patterns volunteer themselves in everything
our nerves proliferate
stir their own fires
and never burn themselves
out even as our attention wanders
they never promise us anything
just go on efficiently negotiating transactions
amongst themselves
each morning the street pries itself open
only to collapse on the sparseness of night
one last wild soul still out walking
clueless through the mystery
passing one with no choice but
to be the one to turn on the lights
nothing isn’t anything we ever imagine
in the decadent cold before dawn
knowing strangers make a hand-off
yet somehow misplace the secret
and here we are
some of us
sipping tea alone in the dark
our windows thin as they ever get
asking
why it is
winter always knows
our mind before we ever arrive
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 5.
Andrew Vogel listens, walks the hills, and teaches in rural eastern Pennsylvania, homelands of the displaced Lenape peoples. His poems have appeared most recently in Poetry East, Hunger Mountain, Crab Creek Review, The Briar Cliff Review, and The North Dakota Quarterly.
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