A poem by Michael Mercurio

By Michael Mercurio

December 27, 2021

January—the year's open
mouth spilling blue light.

Listen: delicate chattering
winter wrens, the ones

who emboss ice with
cuneiform prints.

Predictions or
cryptic resolutions,

I don't know.
No time to believe

in soothsaying; it's ten below
out here, but so clear tonight

that even stars will move
like drifting snow.