A WINTER WITH WORDSWORTH
The mothlike
mi~t
above the tinsel
frost takes on no attitude;
this time not even standing up
against the wavelike weather
In the flux of mind; but metallic
as winter water, assumes that
color's lifeless lack, its
introverted interest. Yet
I am indebted to these barren
trees, life lying low, skin's
wrinkled knowledge of all
seasons' change, exterior cold,
Misery like sap waiting, waiting
for return. Nothing is dead
that suffers; and pain is life
still struggling, as out of
Doom we come, immediate and voracious
as animals. But nothing
actually suffers here. Among
the rusted boughs and iron
Earth there is only deprivation,
a limbo of absence. Inflated
as love's pasturage, a hidden
season's contrast prompts in
Me an old mirage of tenderness.
Under the flattened leaves and
neutral grass, soft earth
repeats the imprint of the
Casual tread. Like tuning instruments,
the damp evokes the overtones
of nights more sensual than
Spring. But the landscape is
