We don’t stop aging in winter

In the morning shower when my brain
is clean and fresh, I divert the tumble
of my thoughts away from Jack the night
my father died. This memory is warm
but the next? How dark and cold, and
how slippery might it be? I leave it
lodged where ground slides into fog
this dark compressed day of winter
and lift my shoulders from their crouch.

Night after night, practicing this skill,
gradually gave me back my sleep.
It isn’t looking at the world through
rose colored glasses. It isn’t looking.