The Morning of Winter

When morning slips into my room,
she offers me a state of grace.
And I see with my closed eyes
the descendants of cantors
dressed in many shades of violet.
This choir, who have my father’s smile,
chants only to keep the frost from silence
and today calls for snow. They know me
as the lost child who will not help shield
this family tree from ice-laden winds.
I am the woman who speaks
with naked branches, who sleeps
with the breath of stones. I am
the woman who communes
with winter while my solitude
echoes its story from ending
to beginning.