OF WINTER & WARS

(for Robert Bly)

This is a country of winter

Of old men and wars

And ghosts defaced in a white mist
Of trees with long black limbs
And snow banks
Piled up high against the back of the house

Here the sky is a kind of blanket
Or shroud
For the dead
And daylight is like a secret
Hidden
In a book that no one has yet to open