January's process is ice, and 

the knobbed oak branches have halos at dawn.

I love too much, I think, and I use a shovel to splinter

the frozen water troughs before driving to work, 

before impressing the things I cannot say onto a

translucent sky. The mist fell last night

while water dripped from every sink in the house

and I listened. The morning is silver and yellow

and I'm walking on fallen mist, longing to

be refracted as the dog's exhalations

glow with greed and life. Cracks scatter quickly 

across the thin ice -- synaptic transmissions

or Buddha fingers, or escape. This 

is the beginning. Every delicate thing has a

glistening edge. The light is growing.