BY GREELEY RIORDAN

Winter-loves are here: silver grass,
frozen stream, the fat honking geese.
I see the world and think, Oh, please,
polish my rusty heart like brass.

Window-dew, frosted, like stained glass — throwing bright shadows, rainbow sparks.
No more robins, no swooping larks;
Yes, winter storms, quiet-call owls.
Bright-cut moon, stars; the wild wind howls.
These beauties, alone, are the dark’s.