The least light
of the thinnest slice
of a fading moon
hangs in a frozen sky.

Crystals form in waves of grass
dried by winter
and splintered by the months
of dry wind passing.

Memory seems dulled
by the constant cold;
did the snows start in November
or was it before that
this year?

Even in the night,
the white softness
shows across the fields,
frames the dark etch of the road
running up the ridge
beyond the creek.

The horse stands
beside the shed,
whiskers heavy with ice,
ears tilted toward me,

believing in the promise
of footsteps crisping toward him,
the gloved hand opening the door
to the storeroom.

It is often in duty to others
that we nourish our own selves,
drawing from this painful pleasure
while hope holds on
through the darkest cold.

H. Arnett
1/31/14