Lady was one of our beloved wolf-dogs
As the snow thickens, and the trees
Hang down in white exclamations
They huddle together, the warmth
Of bodies mingling. Their fur
Ice tinged.
The foxes are next. They dart
This way and that, trying to determine
If hunger is a direction
Instead of choosing the safety of
Den, where they curl in tight
Balls of fur.
It is colder
Than flight or the space in between
Trees. The crows sit solidly
On ghostly branches, their blackness
A curve of reluctance and
Dismissal. They make no sound
Between them
Winter is the lost kingdom.
The place where creatures live
In the pause between snowfall and
Snowfall, where the woods are
Refuge and prison.
The sun is a brief
Salvation; evening falls
It is too late to migrate.
It is winter, no matter what
The calendar says.
Our hearts become ice
And our words thicken
Like snow falling from
A grey, dense sky.
It takes years to thaw,
Until we can look at
Their photographs
When they were young
And ran in the sun
Into our hearts.
We do not forget
Them, ever
Bup, our beautiful 95% white wolf
