by David Kresh

adapted by Grace Brigham

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Bitter wind and a light

scattering of snow.

Under the trees where

snow gathers, small tracks,

trace of paw or birdclaw.

You don' t want these.

​

The pine cone furred with flakes,

bough in the throes of the blow.

The year's crystal breath

darkening in the straitened air.

The belly of the wind.

You don't want these.

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Light in the window,

candles dwindling on the sill,

the faint calling of the

distant scattered stars.

Slow stirrings, turnings,

you don't want any of these things.

​

You just want them back.