In deep November my inner eyes
pan across receding skies of light.
The darker day is longer, slower
on its way, with frosty breath
glazing pensive waters to a slip
sheet surface. The ice beneath
an easy moon, the shore's edge,
the dusted woods white in winter
all conspire as if to whisper, almost,
something urgent. Still-born
minutes pass, time is the count
of falling snow, (nature's make-up)
and falling snow in deep November
says something urgent in a whisper
at the shore's edge in the white woods.
AJH, Nov. 24 1986