Winter glass
is yellowed with old sun
mottled by bird claws
resembling stained relief
a mustard bath
enclosing grief
fields are reaped clear
left to darken
shaken fallow
like wands of sadness
where once they were bright
alive with mice and voles
claiming their hidden kingdom
ears of corn straining upward
unfolding as sun shines
we forget to wipe windows clear
when clouds descend and rivers
closing off air
closing off movement
we retire in our woolen worlds
tucking our chins against brutal cold
like robins closing their red breasts
and the light that gets in
is tainted
like long left cigarette
stains thumb and forefinger
betraying a little of the smokers emotion
as she holds it
sparking in darkness
inhaling her grief
like swallowing words
goes unseen
beneath the ice of defeat
we who clamor without tongues
who fill our mouths with knowledge
no one is there to listen
we who close our doors at night
to the sound of hibernation
keeping out those who would
tear us from rigid postures
make scarecrows in blizzards
of our rags and scoured bones
for who knows?
how another feels behind walls
or how it feels to be touched by
dirty light letting in the reminder
we are but fields of yellow
turning brown and beginning once more
each time a little less steady
in our long walk