SEASON OF WAITING
perhaps it is because we are in the season of waiting
those months when empty streets pull the wind down from
a silver-white sky, churches drape themselves in violet cloth
and candles are left burning on windowsills at night.
perhaps this is why I see no point in opening my curtains
day after day, putting my pen to paper beneath an open window.
what is there to see now that is not greater than itself,
greater than its own reflection in my eye?
I’ve hung the sign of the times on my front door.
winter is winter, the key to all birth woven into a wreath of cedar.
outside, the squirrels have stopped screaming at each other
and hold their tails over their frost-bitten heads as it snows.
it is the same for me. I’d rather close my eyes right now,
sleep through the old ceremony of time renewing itself.
above the city, plump rats are scaling the same telephone wires
and running, always running, to see what they know is here.