Sunset In Winter

How valuable it is in these short days,

threading through empty maple branches,
the lacy-needled sugar pines.

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

We can make do with so little, just the hint

of warmth, the slanted light.

The way we stand there, soaking in it,

mittened fingers reaching.

And how carefully we gather what we can

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.