Left my gloves
so I hug myself,
spontaneous and on the verge
of spiritual adventures.
I haven’t been hugged in a while,
and when I wrap hands deep inside
the folds, there’s palliative warmth.

Left my glasses
so it’s blurry wet,
dampness inspires amidst
thick fields of white.
I’m willing to die to myself,
as trees do in our favorite garden
where weeds harbor no fear of the cold.

Left my woolly hat,
with head exposed
I connect, convalescing the world
like today’s snow. A puff of white air,
a poem, there’s moisture under their
drifting scuds of thoughtful laughter;
praise grows like mounds of icy snow.

Mother Winter,
you’re a vision
through any window,
and I love being your
nirvanic, wisdom-seeking,
shivering child.