deep autumn, and all the tourists have gone
south with the geese and fickle sun
only those things remain which can bear
the frown of winter: the ice stars,
the raven, the moon, and this solitude,
keeping their long faith with forsaken things.
the lake turns its cold face,
is no one’s mirror,
and the sky pouts back,
everything wakes and sleeps in forest time,
to the soft drum of wind
among the pines, to the snow forever falling and
the long dark bringing its constellations,
bright cruciforms against the sky
lighting the quiet way on snow
for winter migrations of caribou,
or wolf, or phantom grief moving out
and away in a silent
ritual of passage
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