Shelter

Who has time
for sturdy
rooftops,
those days
spilling through
the old kinds of winters,
the chill smoothing
splintered doorframes,
the snow going
to interior corners?
Those days
outside the kitchen windows,
the silvered sun
pressed between
horizon and the low, gray, down
of the sky -
lulling geese
to stay too-long
in ponds -
were meant for
ages walked,
not overflown.

In the end
east pulls itself to west,
and there's no getting by it.

It all makes sense
the way that nothing ever does, or did;
the way the days still pass
beneath feet
numbed cold, soaked and stilled.