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Who do you think of when you’re alone,
in the nascent winter’s pale sunlight,
as moss shrivels into soil,
hours before the clouds allow snow to fall?
Does he beckon you out to the ice?
Who do you remember when you’re alone,
before the young sparrows disappear,
and the sycamores still have their skin,
despite the morning’s cruel frost?
Does he ever sing from the dying trees?
Who do you miss most when you’re alone,
when the crinkled sky threatens more cold,
as the wind strangles the final snake,
and even the stars start to shiver?
When will he come to lead you away?