These White Curtains

Tonight, late,
in stealth and fierce beauty,
winter storm comes in
from the mountains.

We cannot hold back the snow,
these white curtains
settling like silk to the fields.
Nor can we stop the sifting down
of hours whose flames
flare in their tallow,
the brave inscriptions of smoke
over household air.

Do they write epitaph
or libretto,
what it is to be slaked
of longing?

For earlier I curled against you;
we gave ourselves to rapture
lying side by side
like sojourners in a capsule
tumbling through space’s milky seas.

Now, misgiving cloaks itself
on the peripheries of night.
and a spider swings in her web
against the frosted pane.

It is my watch: fortified
By your touch
I am at the helm
of being,

peering through my sextant
at the incandescent drapery
of snowy air,
navigating all the dark seas
of dreaming’s tiny bones.

copyright Jenne’ R. Andrews 2014