No One to Share This With

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.









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