Wind and Recollection
 

       Tonight is a night 
       of wind, of recollection.
       The trees sing
       their alphabet: 
       cold, leafless, reverent; 
       a dirge 
       for the floor 
       of this house
       so recently
       cut, and lowered, 
       and hammered without mercy;
       or milky clouds
       and the fat moon that now 
       lazes and grazes
       among shadows and stars.
       But I, I 
       know so little of these things.
       Thick as ever, 
       behind glass,
       behind curtains,
       I sit by the fire,
       lost in the pageant of memory,
       again and again skating
       the breadth and length 
       of today's frozen rink;
       my blades, ankles, 
       calves, and thighs
       write line after line 
       in the afternoon ice:
       look at me, look at me,
       look at me. 



       Next
       Contents
       Home page