The days are short – and they’ll grow shorter still
before the sun of spring returns to touch
the earth. Leaning upon my windowsill,
I look outside and I do not see much
except a woodcut – all in white and black
and soft grey where shadows start to gather –
day scarce begun before night takes it back.
A solitary bird, fluffed of feather
until it wholly loses its true shape,
pecks at the ground in hope – but finds just snow –
it stands in silhouette, its beak agape,
and then, defeated, spreads its wings to go…
Dead of winter. The world hears not the call
to life. And the snow continues to fall.