Remission

A blizzard's whistle

drowns in the growing

teapot whistle inside.

Hot tea and warm words

accent the confines

of sequestered passage.

Climbing from fear

to cherish the moments

of shared benediction,

grateful and allowing

power in companionship.

A turn of the eyes

seeing for the first time

the Titian hue of a pine cone

encased in spring snow and

a sheaf folding away, opening

the leeward side of a drift

inviting me to scribe

on the open page

my proclamation of survival

then watch it slide down

and meld with the ground,

nourishing new grass

and fresh shoots.