A Bruise's Blue, Winter's Ice

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At the window there is
a pale glaze of frost over the glass.
The light of morning is milky, soft, belying
cold’s sharp edges.
This is the palette of winter: gray,
glossy white, frozen brown, the dull green
of dead things,
the pitch black of night,
a bruise’s blue—
and it’s as if the sun is not rising
but that the cold is slowly
releasing
it’s fist-clench of the sky, slowly
lifting, lightening, its fingers
looser now, but still white
with resolve.
Watching, I marvel
that the blood in my heart
rushing from aorta to artery to vein
is still red, still warm
still moving in its thumping
song of breath and hope—of another
tomorrow lived, and another, and another:
right through this frozen winter.