01 February (thought conglomeration)

It is cold here, and I am trying to be Billy Collins.

There is a fistful of snow on the porch railing,
As if some celestial being had softly shaken
Slightness from its scalp.

Outside there is neither Moon nor Yew Tree;
There is sunlight on the snow, light of the bright sort
Underneath the skin of one in love.

(All these, things I said I'd never write about,
Line up in accusation, as if against a wall,
Like ghosts of animals I've cooked but never eaten.)