Early Winter Keen

I greet this wail, this grief of winter wind,
with disbelief: it is too soon to blow,
to moan as though no pulse, no beat, no breath,
remained. They do. It’s not yet time to mourn,
to claim the end and yield to lamentation.
I purse my lips, resistant to the sob
within as to the howl without. I shut
the window to the wind. My teeth are cold.

A hiss seeps through the seam between the frame
and glass. A hiss of pain seeps through the seam
between my lips. I listen to this air,
insidious, the sound like ice sucked dry
inside a dirge. My love, come hold me now.
Just let your warmth enfold me for a while.
Just sing to me your answer to this wind.