I celebrate the warmth of solitude. 
Tiny feathers cling to each other, 
repel winter’s cold and the white  
noise of the day, the buzzing  
that seems never to end. They chase 
the chatter so far, I lose its cloying 
scent, the clicks and clanks  
of its claws and chains. With one 
cleansing breath, I have entered 
my temple, more a convent cell  
than a consecrated space. 
It is dark—the only light needed 
the tricks closed eyes play, magical 
as candlelight. And the silence— 
sacred how it wraps around me 
in its own version of flannel, 
sacred in how it plays at being 
as infinite as numbers. Then comes 
the balance this space claims,  
the moment when I lose track 
of warmth, darkness, silence 
and fall asleep.