Out of Season

--Michael Magee

Winter slows us down toward sleep,

we burrow deep beneath our covers

dreaming of our private season.

We wake each day with weary eyes,

creep out to eat our daily bread,

arrange our collars in the mirror.

Today echoes the day before,

the empty stomach of the fireplace,

the ashes of too many winters.

Outside the life is marginal,

the morning sketched in charcoal,

branches lean as spider webs,

the wind stripping the throat bare,

knifing beneath the collarbone.

We hold the breath inside our lungs

and store up speech like kindling wood.

We stir the coals that flare within.