Peacock prisms angle through window cracks
making visible. Sills warm and silence bows
the wizened damp mumbles cold won’t thaw, once
cold won’t thaw, won’t thaw won’t thaw–
One sock’s soulmate is in shavasana under the table,
children’s chirping artwork is mute. I feel visible
playing mash-ups with my coffee grinder
and Rossini’s William Tell. There are calls for prayer:
his father’s heart surgery, their grandmother’s hospice.
Leaving December behind, their mysteries hold us
steadily naked trees homing barely dressed sparrows,
our own invisibility looking to be seen.