In Winter

Light shines through curtains

that can’t hold back the light for too long.

There’s a shape of the morning outside

and I’m within, cold.

I survey the damage I’ve done

to my duvet, no corners touching the edges of the bed.

My arm is tender where I bruised it

that day before I sat with you

away from the circle. I was polite and you were late.

This light feels wooden yet delicately hollow,

like my guitar: it feels the vulnerability of my chest

when I cradle it and hold it close to me.

I put on white clothing -  

for I have my seasons, too - and

I know this snow can cover where my skin is ugly,

where I feel you should not look or touch;

well, I’m old-fashioned.

Though I may not allow you to hold me

when I am at my most defenceless,

somewhere between my voice and the strings,

is my heart, given as an offering

of all the humble pieces

of which I am made.