The Rustle of Things

So, light to the sombre and dark—
some other’s word and warm.
I keep a soul shrouded.
                I hide I shiver;
                in the corners, loom the edges of
                a frost and night.
And while we grow—
                while we keep ourselves alone, perhaps,
and feel so much the rustle of things that otherwise hide,
we are that, more than this endless
                inside;
that dance around us, that only others—
that only love provides.