There is solitude in winter indistinguishable
from what you experience
when you choose not to say a thing:
the quiet private swings and certainties
that breed in keeping your own counsel:
whose stolidly New England solace and stark
common sense become your metaphysic.
The mystical consists in seeing anything
in unapologetic January air –
whose gelid glare, devoted to sharp angles
of the sun, bares everything and everyone.
There is no one to share this with.
It’s yours to make of as you must.Sleek, how brilliant clarity engenders trust.