The things I never liked,
like winter light in January,
the long, cold, wasted afternoons
too bright upon the cusp
of December’s darker
grays and greens
to slowly come to like such things,
how much richer they seem
for their unexpected seduction,
like bitter flavors or certain music
like clouds unmingling
to show a higher cloud
moving the other way. Fear
and loneliness, I could say:
wracks the wind has rent by grace.
For witness that shredded circle
rimmed with white like blazing wire
and what now shines
upon a few cans
in the snow.