Winter came. The geese receded over the horizon
with wings that flew so deeply into the sky it felt like love.
There was always the chance that the snow would burn away everything
from the old year, leave it new, leave it clean,
soak letters that were never sent to the point of destruction.
And always the deep twilight outside the window,
the trees with their limbs so bare of leaves that
every branch looked like a patient recovering from an eating disorder.
Always the mountains in the distance,
the endless rain, the shotgun under the bed.
Someone underneath the covers, telling themselves
that this is not hibernation, that they will only stay there
for a few more hours, just until dawn,
just until daylight, just until everything feels bearable again.