my inaugural poem

I think once a year
the earth really wants to die
like this, in the cold reservoir
of beauty, winter afternoon
at 4 PM.

Which is why the sky
opens like a bullet
wound, wrapped
in golden blood.

Which is why so few of us
are here, and only
by accident.

The sparrows are plump
and pecking through
the snow. The branches are mesmerized
by their own stark shadows.

Some grace must come from all that waiting.

I think the earth is trying to tell me
this is so but no doubt
it’s just me
and my hubris,

my mind talking to me.

And when I come home
I will write this poem
because that is the only way I know
how to seek company.

And the words will lie still on the page
with the frozen stare of loneliness
which I refuse,
because the day has been good to me.