The Vacancy of Winter

Now is the boredom of winter. Each day is a lost city; The lost city of wood is still. The cold is a chisel, Cutting deep in the wood; There is a message in the long grain, A message for saints. Tomorrow may be a long day, A day of plenty A day of smiles. Yet winter rides on-- It goes in a white envelope. The rain has become ice. The wind is keen-- It keeps time with the boughs. The trees have tongues-- Even now. But no sound comes out. Only silence, A silence walking on padded feet. There is no white ghost there, Only an apparition, An impostor. Where have all the birds gone? The trees are empty. The limbs are vacant.