It snowed in far country north and
beyond the trees.
As I went through the mirror my breath froze
clouding it, and they saw me no longer
in the villages of spring. I walked alone
across level plains, and my tracks disappeared
in the snow which went with me.
A wind rose playing on harpstrings
and reeds. There was nothing there, and my fingers
touched ice. A music a music an echo of music—
sound not a sound in the quiet north country—
the snow.
That time in the early evening,
a cold sunset gone—
colder than I remember
a year ago at apparently
the same time—
the time when cars
go by, one after another.
Purposeful, not speeding,
just to get home.
My neighbors are tired
and hungry For what
do they hunger?
beyond a break in the day,
in from the cold? A warm dinner.
What more do they want?
Where do they turn?
Words fail.
They cannot tell me.
If they could
I would not hear them
going past down
this ordinarily quiet road.
