At the winter solstice I know again
the only point is to catch the light,
the soft shading behind black branches
against white sky. I try to hold
this moment of change in the sun
the east lit up in negative,
the hills to the south glowing
from inside, and the dark sweep
where the leaves were carried off into clouds
or another range of hills. The point, after all,
is to say only: winter light, what’s here.

The brown summer boxes of leaves thrown down
And abandoned are now resurrected in dirt,
In the vacancy under the curve of fence line,
in the deeper shadow where the road
lies hung in its ruts. I give rapt
attention to weather and record it:
the solid black trunks of the oaks,
the small evening fires.
A formal music comforts
by velocity of measure and thin melody
cello obligato, the deep soft voice of coming snow.