January

    Dusk and snow this hour

    in argument have settled

    nothing. Light persists，

    and darkness. If a star

    shines now， that shine is

    swallowed and given back

    doubled， grounded bright.

    The timid angels flailed¹

    by passing children lift

    in a whitening wind

    toward night. What plays

    beyond the window plays

    as water might， all parts

    making cold digress.

    Beneath iced bush and eave，

    the small banked fires of birds

    at rest lend absences

    to seeming absence. Truth

    is， nothing at all is missing.

    Wind hisses² and one shadow

    sways where a window's lampglow

    has added something. The rest

    is dark and light together tolled³

    against the boundary-riven

    houses. Against our lives，

    the stunning⁴ wholeness of the world.