Woods in Winter

Bare-breasted now and unashamed the wood Stands cold as stone against the quiet hour. Small eyes of rabbits, sharp with hunger’s search, Kindle brown grasses where the wind has stood Half frozen through a night of motionless birch. The imminence of snow, pale flake on flake, Locked in a cloud withholds its shining power Which in a moment’s space may stir and break. Not till the snow is gone, the bladed cold, Shall I return to these stripped woods again; Walking through silence here I seem to move In measured quiet among a thousand men Lashed by the whips of life, broken and old, Lonely as all men are bereft of love.