Poems let the cold air in.

There will still be hearths and fires and warmth

But doors swing open. Sometimes

In the night

The breath of moors and moons and birdsong blown

To distances


The exhilaration of the strange.


But out there is

But out there is…


Aligned with the deep

Loving all of

Is ness,

Being,


Worms in fields,

Larks

Planets, and


The Nothing that is worth worship


And the furthest reaches of

Of

I am.