Winter Hymn

It is a damn cold night,
But these nights are clear.

The frigid wind has a way
Of cutting down to bone
And probing deeper.

These are the evenings of my discontent.

I am more honest in the cold:
Winter offers the formality
Of doctor-patient confidence,
When the weather reminds me
That death is not so foreign.

This is not the end, but
Death is piling on dying.

On cold, hard nights like this
I hear something written on my heart.
It whispers: “I see a new day coming,”
and:
“There is beauty in cold, desolate places.”