Another year is lost. Another looking forward
in the hope that all roads would lead to
the desired end. Another face,
which had almost found itself
as if for the first time in its own place.

Only the increasing winter has stayed
through a quiet change in dates. A winter
more harsh than remembering the nearest things,
more sure of itself than every kind of foretelling.

I have been waiting for yet other things to sail into
the frozen cavities of the mind—the morning noises
of children perspiring in spite of the cold
even as the grandmothers pray for their own departing.