January (Poetry)

This is the worst month —
the days are numb when blood
and breath are frozen into stillness —
the heart’s a tree
stripped of its soft flutterings and stark
alone upon a hill
and no one there to see what’s carved
deep into the wood — a name
the moss has not yet grown to hide
nor healed the weeping scar
that winter winds make raw again

And there is no warming to be found
in anything — harsh hours hold their grip
throughout grey grainy light’s short stay
frost hardens with the darkness — cracks
the toughest stone —
night is one long shiver — a soft moan
escaping down a tunnel of the years
I haven’t held you while the seasons turn
to January — brittle
as a bone.