Come, January,
white and silver; ring
silent as thrushes
cling to the stone
knuckles of the old
elm's hand too stiffened
to bend. Harden Fall's
stream to a window
on bedrock-soled veins
below where tremors
of the distant hills'
running rains dwindle.
Turn from the hope
born of yellow-basked,
red-breasted mornings;
with one clouded eye
torn toward my door
send dry breath to draw
the rot from beneath
life's leavings. Sweep clear
my undisturbed path.
