At night, the shadow of a wolf descends

down the frozen shoulders of the forest

to settle by the window of this house–

I see her figure held within its frame

and she in turn watches me from the yard,

the shadow of a cross against her face

casting from my window upon her face–

but when the smoke above the roof descends

it drifts past every corner of the yard

and pools below the edges of the forest

and spills around the contours of her frame

to turn her from the light beyond this house

to turn her as a secret from my house.

Yet she returns to gaze upon my face

on smokeless nights, to grace my window frame

and bless the moonlit grass when night descends,

singing with her brothers in the forest

whose chorus echoes outward from the yard.

Beyond my bed, she beckons from the yard

her breath beneath the floorboards of this house

bearing winds that gather in the forest

now rising from my ankles to my face.

In dreams, the shadow of a wolf descends

slowly below my headboard to the frame

till I am frozen fast against the frame.

Her frozen breath vanishes in the yard,

her cobalt eyes recede, then she descends

the broken marble path behind the house

and leaps behind the fence’s northern face

to join her brothers deep in the forest

past the open shoulders of the forest.

I wake to see her near the window frame,

who peers from shadows cast across her face,

who warms her winter body in the yard

and leaves her restless spirit in my house.

I praise her every night when she descends,

when her shadow turns to face the forest

and smoke descends below this window frame

to fill the yard, turning her from my house.