·­Òë×ÊѶ

The river-fog will do for privacy
on the low road a breath here, there, a cloudiness floating on the black top
sunflower heads turned black and bowed the seas of corn a stubble the old routes flowing north, if not to freedom no human figure now in sight (with whom do you believe your lot is cast?) only the functional figure of the scarecrow the cut corn, ground to shreds, heaped in a shape like an Indian burial mound a haunted-looking, ordinary thing
The work of winter starts fermenting in my head how with the hands of a lover or a midwife to hold back till the time is right force nothing, be unforced accept no giant miracles of growthby counterfeit light trust roots, allow the days to shrink give credence to these slender means wait without sadness and with grave impatience here in the north where winter has a meaning where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen where nothing is promised learn what an underground journey has been, might have to be; speak in a winter code let fog, sleet, translate; wind, carry them.