In the Bleak Midwinter

after Christina Rosetti Pour leaves into a gossamer bag, the kettle boils in the bleak midwinter the orange-brown water steams your mug and glasses watching snow fall in the bleak midwinter the cinnamon scent of your mothers touch fills your nose in the bleak midwinter the teardrop shed at her absence joins your mug— your mother passed this bleak midwinter one rotation round the earth, the first and last snow falls without her here, the coming end of the bleak midwinter