A shift happens
That is, things slightly
Askew, I ask you,
“Where’d you find
the time?” In minutiae
it begins.  Akin
to a thin shaft of bright;
light slipping through the
slats in the blinds or the
knock knock of the rain
when it comes with
its tiny silver feet shrouded
in sheets and then there is the slightest
Nod forward toward silence,
The warmth tunneling into
The pits of our stomachs;
Cold air.
We may be still
As solidly fragile as the frozen lake.
As the dog-whelk, the porkweed,
As the icicle’s stem.
The winter’s still beating.
But still we may try,
There is still laughter,
Still the in-out thrum of the heart.
Still the blackness of night
And the unceasing notion
We call progress:
That is to say, there is
still the dream.