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?

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