Now we wait
for the snow to cross all this out;
for the cold to draw a line,
strengthen the contours,
hone the meagre light
& pull the signs of the zodiac tight over the land;
kick where it hurts the most
& take the consequences

We see ourselves twitch upstairs in our sleep,
only to soon – wrapped in the warmth of the bed –
set our morning feet
on the freezer-cold bedroom floor’s
near-death experience,
& on our knees, as if in prayer,
fire up the stove
with numb hands, stiff fingers

Now we wait with headlamps
for an ending
to a frosty relationship with the season,
while we freeze-dry our tears
in the corn snow’s face-blast across the marshes
& the north wind poets in full meter;
blows its boreal alap
upon the Per Albin house’s stiff-frozen stoop