half an aubade for december

BEE LB

all those 70 degree days were from inside, and now what?
i don’t go, i don’t know. it’s warm inside, the sun is stretching

its muscles. in the morning i stretch with it,
by noon i’m atrophied. and what of the early night?

it’s never belonged to me, i don’t check on it. maybe i should.
maybe i should stretch all day. wait for the sun to touch

my paintings, then my ceiling, then my foor. maybe even
hesitate toward the dining room, what a winter stretch

that would be. but why would i? the sun is for gracing the lake
on the best of days, warming the trees that reach tallest,

thinning the ice without ever breaking. i, in my lonely
litle container of rooms, have never offered

the winter sun a thing but a thought. and what worth is that?