Mute dreams bow down to the listener now.

The dogs crowd snaggled planks

around the house and whimper

at a cold-blown moon.

Two jays claim their early feed

below the hen-shed eaves. Rain

stampedes the sick-room glass.

My broken bones rehearse some simple mendings.

Cells tuck and roll the fractured space

like winter bending

into spring: the ashes green

their weathered stems; woods

snap like white-winged sheets

across the open air.

Nature chafes inside this winter wrap.

The dogs quiet down as the moon

battens her hatch. Blue jays grouse

about stray eggs then eat

their fill. The window

sloughs its skin and sounds

the new year’s poulticed verb.