WINTER POEM

I don’t fare well with this talk of tax, trade, bombs, and blood.
I don’t know the answers.
And I am too gentle
to really engage in most political arguments,
and, frankly,
I am quite naive.

But I can pick up a harmony quick,
and I am well studied in the way that light reflects
off stone
and water
and honey,
and once I saved a small dying bird from the cold
and gave her a warm
blanketwrapped peace
in which to die. 
And when she was dead,
I took her out to a hedgerow,
a green border place,
and laid her in the hushing grass.

I have two opinions.

1. What we yearn for
   in the quiet night-dread
   is more important than what we say,
   no matter how right we are.
   

2. Snow with foxprints
   is God in a winter coat.