The winter is beginning.
The hour is at hand.
The trembling embrace of the snow.
Like a blanket for this land;
the body is the land. The farmer is in for it–
the worst of winter, for the bitterness abroad is bound to take shelter,
like a wanderer or maybe an adventurer.
…And there it is again, the song of the bones in overture, and then–
swing of the clock’s crimson arm.
Winter becomes bearable; even in the midst of its revenge–
Copyright April 17, 2019