A door opened before I rang the bell, 
the host older than me, in a green gown 
whose sleeves covered thin wrists. 
I saw only the sun tattoos 
on the back of her hands 
which urged me out of the sleet
 as a gray dog nosed
my fingers and held me 
in amber wolf eyes,
assessing. 

I came from my edge, bereft of choices, silenced
from possibilities repeated too many times
in sotto voce to stars, sunsets and creeks.

I yielded to what I needed, 
this tall trans-gender grace,
syllables more song than litany,
more hum than mantra. 
They asked me to step out
of my shoes, waved to a chair,
and offered elderberry tea and honey. 
The wild pet crouched
near my feet licking its paws.  

You may need other than this: 
a bent man in worn boots 
who stoops to admire
your neighbors’ gladiolus. 
Your Christ on a cross. 
The garden Buddha
crowned in first snow.
The lifeline of a road home. 
Once the chihuahua’s dance 
on hind feet for kibble.
Attend even to the tadpole.  

Your back’s shadow 
may reach not to darkness,
rather to praise for the slant
of this season’s dawning sun.
                        

Not like the woman with no other choices. 
Not exactly like the sleeve gone wrong
    in the wash. 
Nor the good crowd at the funeral
    for the shot-dead boy. 
Never the light required on the altar
    to remember. 

Dressed in fleece and wool, striped socks
    and padded boots,
    seeking clean white snow 
    and pawprints passing.

Let it turn out that what I did made sense,
   perhaps not for the best, what I come
   to understand in leaving him

as the beast in me craving fresh air
   despite the assault of winter.