Winter

Couched on crimson cushions,
pink bleeds gold

and red spills into one’s heart.
Broad leather keeps time,

calibrating different hours
in different zones

unaware of the grammar
that makes sense.

Only random woofs and snores
of two distant dogs

on a very cold night
clears fog that is unresolved.

New plants wait for new heat —
to grow, to mature.

An old cane recliner contains
poetry for peace — woven

text keeping comfort in place.
But it is the impatience of want

that keeps equations unsolved.
Heavy, translucent, vaporous,

split red by mother tongues —
winter’s breath is pink.