Miscellaneous weak hand poems and miscellaneous birds

Here in the quiet of snow
day pauses, it too loves the hush,
the quilted whisper of flake
against flake, ice nestling ice.
Light swallowing the night.

The quiet and chill seems
all I own somedays,
all I should want to own.
I gather them both like marbles
and covet their perfect clear
and singular beauty.

The night and its comforts
are often visited by the twin
demons of regret and sorrow
those two argumentative sisters
who rule only their world
but meddle in mine. They’re
like those two orange tabby cats
gorgeous and poised
in the afternoon
sun who then run through the 3AM
darkness and bite your toes.

The moon shifts its place in the sky.
Of course, I know it isn’t the moon’s
shifting but mine. My world tilting
back into other alignments
but even with the lengthening days
(the shortening nights) something
feels off. The moon’s brilliance
is charming but needs so much
darkness to shine.