The early winter light is so bright I can’t see
the page, as if I’m writing blind. I hear
singing and write that, following sounds.
The white fog clears with no sound; birds
hide in the trees, and in the grasses, cold feathers.
The voices disappear, forlorn with early sunsets.
At dawn I scatter seeds over the frosted meadows
and silent grasses, heavy and bent toward day.
The year follows itself, an icy stream winding
this way and that, insisting on its own shape.
Now I’ve memorized it, the chinking notes of ice,
while something within insists I play it another way.
Talking to myself, carving a thought, a kite in spring wind
tied by a string to the eager, earthbound self.
—Nellie Hill