I don’t see the frost in the glade
gather porous over our skin
and the long stalks of the dead grass
brown and red and weeping.
Slow now the storm seeps over the sky
filled with church bells playing loosely from the gray village
through the fence posts and barbed wire
low long arching clouds letting slip the snow.
The river’s tide ebbs slowly
our footsteps buried in the summer wildflowers
that will not bloom again
night rings the sun
light the moon reflects in vain.