BY MARK CLEMENT
Copyright is held by the author.
Three days of January snow confirms
the sun’s calculation that now it’s time
to accept cold and the sleeping earth’s silence,
time to be still and let the buried sunlight
work its patient mystery. Black squirrels
bounce along the top of our wooden fence,
push aside the fluffy snow, then scramble
nimbly down the small green pine, jounce across
trivial snow drifts and eagerly search our porch
for the cache of summer sunflower seeds.
Later, small birds flutter down, hop and bob
in the rubble and search for fallen bits.
The squirrels and birds pull me back to now,
to the meager sun glinting on snow,
to the reflection in my patio door
where old summers sigh and sleep in silence.