Chilling ghosts drift across the heavens.
Fragile fingers spread into a stream,
A suffocating, wan December sky,
Blankets coldly, easing downward,
And, humbly, we succumb.
Thus nullified, we rest,
And try to recover and rebuild.
We breathe slowly, and invest in solemnity.
We design aimlessly and conspire with phantoms.
We plan and plot and prepare. And for what?
We wait. For waiting is the last resort,
The final function, the night watch
When all the leaves have been stripped away,
When the brown ground lies fallow
And the lifeless sky presses down.
We are left on our own, alone at last.
Our winter’s wood has all been cut and stacked.
A kettle’s on the stove. Bread is in the oven.
The door is shut and barred. A lamp is lit.
It’s quiet now, and in the evening,
Dreams, unfulfilled, drift blindly to the ground.
They calm our solitude and sanctify our peace.
And in the spring, there won’t be any tracks.