Lying in bed, head deep under,
the covers folded so it’s dark
and warm, and just a thread of
fresh air creeps in through a
slim wrinkle. A pillow carefully
crushed to cradle my neck just
so, sleeping dogs warm the length
of my spine. Outside the wind
pushes fast and loud; the winter
tree twists and sways and slaps
back; branches in an angry wrestle.
Agitated twigs clatter and snap,
but deep below crevices in the bark,
past rings of age, the heartwood
eases out a restful sigh. Roots
hold steady, let the cold wind run.