Fox In The Field

I'd like to know what is it you do
to show you love me?
What is it you do to make me feel loved?
 
It's freezing outside
The dog comes in and refuses
to get in his crate.
I speak harshly to him  
and he sulks in as I close
the gate behind him.
It's not your fault
you're a damn dog,
it's my fault  
that I treat you like one.
The trouble with treating
someone like an old bastard
is they start to act like
an old bastard  
to meet expectations.
I sometimes wonder what you see
when you look at me,
a broken shell of a man?
The egg is most beautiful when unbroken,
yet we crack it and eat  
the embryo contained therein;
a mere substance to sustain us.
Apparently, it is worth sacrificing
beauty and even children
to keep ourselves alive.  
There is within this struggle
of nature versus nurture
a cruel brutality
which often goes unnoticed,
except by the husband.
We are left alone
with dogs and lightning  
on long stormy nights.
We make, buy, barrow, or steal
all the things we want,
but what we truly desire
are the things we cannot have,
the things lovers do.
There's a kind of wisdom
that comes from feeling unloved.
I feel as alone as the fox I saw
standing in a snowy field as I passed by
on a train from Montreal to Quebec City
one winter's afternoon.  
I wonder if you may feel  
like you're fumbling to get a picture  
only to have sped by too quickly.
Do you not see me out here  
all alone in the cold?
My pain means nothing to you,
else why when I ask for water
would you give me sour wine?
I stand silently alone,
cold in the field,
as you pass by.
You, the source of my exile.
You, warm on the train.
You, who only wanted a photograph of me.
How long have I spread
my arms and held tightly
to everything that was slipping way?
I suppose you love me the only way you can,
as the wave touches the volcano
then returns to the vast sea;
like a woman that weeps into
the hair of her dead lover,
the only thing she has left to give
is her tears.
 
The dog is secure in his crate
and I am trapped in my gilded cage.
I stare blankly out the window,
shadows of trunks and branches
paint the asphalt road a darker shade of gray.
The still brown winter water of the pond
half-heartedly tries to reflect the light blue sky.
Winter is brutal
You'd think I'd be used to it by now,
cold as you are.