winter’s aubade
It is cold, outside,
in the early morning
in the early morning
when it is still,
and dark, and quiet,
I leave the shelter
of my warm bed
and make my way
down the stairs
and out the door
it is quiet, outside,
in the early morning
I stand there,
in the early morning,
in the dark stillness of
the lingering nightly chill
it is dark, outside,
in the early morning
I stand there,
in the dark
in the quiet
in the cold
slowly,
gently,
reverently,
I let my neck
and shoulders relax,
and allow my head
to tip backwards
there, in that moment and
that space, hung suspended between
the earth and sky—
the morning and the night—
the sun, moon, and stars—
time with you and time without you—
in those early morning moments
of still and dark
and quiet and cold,
I open my mouth
and slowly, longingly, exhale
as I watch my breath
rise and steam away from me
hanging thick and clouded around my head,
I pretend that I am a dragon
for if I am a dragon, then
inside of me there is always
a light; there is always
a roar; there is always
the heat and spark of flame
nothing in me, then,
if I am a dragon, nothing
is still or dark
or quiet or cold
and if I am,
in truth or fantasy,
a dragon, then each
billowing breath of mine—
in this early morning stillness
in this early morning darkness
in this early morning silence
in this early morning cold—
each billowing breath
becomes an offering
a way to warm the world
by some small degrees
to make sure that you,
my love, will not freeze
if I can take the fire
that flickers in my
dragon’s heart and exhale
it in long, slow, breaths,
then I will spend each and every
early morning standing, barefoot,
in the still and the dark
and the quiet and the cold
it does not matter
that my feet are bare
upon the sidewalk, or
that my fingertips are blue
I am a dragon,
after all—
even if only pretending
and only for a moment—
there is no danger to me
that I cannot chase away
with a fiery heart, and
maybe, just, perhaps—
perhaps, somewhere, you are
pretending to be a dragon, too