Winter gives its breath in waves
of clearer mornings and crisper nights
It whistles past my ears and I sit
knees against my chest
wrapped in mother's quilt, patched
with handsewn stitchwork
Worn and frayed
A tattered shield half-filtering
December's evening
chill of air.

The stars, one thousand penlights
scattering cross the sky's
own patchwork quilt
of constellations, connecting
to my eye and followed
by my outstretched finger
tracing the Great Bear
through spiraling smoke
that dances from half-filtered
habit to despair.

My glowing wand
Gives its breath, enslaves
me with its whispered plight
in streaming deltas
upwards built
stacked freedom from my
sheltered sight
and I inhale December
while catering to dreams
of highways scrolling under me
in man-stitched asphalt seams.

The air hangs in the winter
with time's slow creeping pace
And Ursa's hibernating
in her home transfixed in space.

The miles of sky above me
the miles of road between
January's newborn year
and Ursa's waking spring.