we wake to find the hills, the pines

dusted with a confection of snow

our single pane glass frosted and rimed

and stillness pregnant but utter

i blow smoke rings of winter air

snuggle deeper beneath our quilts

search and find the warmth of . . . her 

saturday, all things are possible

a drive to tsankawi, a hike, a picnic

in the cold bright sun, los alamos

in the distance, beyond that tegucigalpa,

aurea borealis, ulaanbaatar, the pequod

but first an inventory of what is right

a catalog of events unreported, secret