Glad Tidings
I
The ice that grips the curb is white,
With wavy snakes of gray-black stains.
It glints in noon's uncertain light
Made glassy hard in melting rains. Rain raps the air conditioner
Set on my sill, but there is no
Premonitory, onward stir
Of tidings, no herald, in this slow Recurrence, insensate pace
Of nature's inhuman patience.
This day before Christmas we face
No true unease; no reticence Inhibits our routine. We cock No ear to register a pitch
Above the titter of the clock,
No eye to fix on hues too rich To bear without ecstatic cry
Of rude bliss or antiquated
Dusty prance beneath the night sky.
What coming, now, is awaited?
21 de diciembre de 2011
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