Am I?

Here is the perfect accomplice

  to the colony of rabbits

  stuffed into underbrush and each other

  like cotton wool tufts.

Fresh snow, a crisp linen sheet,

  opaque over yesterday’s frolics,

  keeping snapped twig

  and zigzag print secrets

  beneath its neat drape.

. . .

Am I like the den mother?

Unburdening my worry

  to the snow,

  eyes closed

  to a merciful morning?

. . .

But here is a cruel saboteur

  of the tawny fox stationed there,

  three paws to the ground

  ears perked toward the taunt

  of up-high chickadees.

. . .

Am I that foiled predator?

Nose dusted with white,

  having caught no scent

  from low leaves trapped in rime?

Now a stroke of red paint

  on blank canvas terrain

  exposed, erect prize

 in nature's cruel claw-drop game

 for the next set of talons

 that might heft my weight,

 my sin only to hunger

 on a pitiless day?

. . .

Is that me, or could I be

 winter, arriving?

. . .

All my life, I've been

 this generous with my body.

All my life, I've been

 that wretched in my robbery.

Am I willing to own

 my ripples of consequence—

 the dignity of my effort,

 the shame of my indifference?

Can I

 ask neither recognition

 nor forgiveness

 to contain paradox

  in the breadth of this moment

 and its infinite

 stillness?

. . .

Yes—

 she could be me

 as I too have kissed the earth,

 not errantly, and caused

 the wheel of fortune to turn.