The clock has finished its frantic count.Leaving the house in a hollowed-out hum. Outside, the frost is a silver mount, On the bones of the garden, brittle and numb. We do not speak of the grand design, Or the resolutions we’ve already frayed. We watch how the morning’s pale, thin line cuts through the mist the midnight made.There is a grace in the dormant root, A strength in the branch that carries the ice. The year is a young and tender shoot, Not yet broken, not yet priced. So breathe in the cold until it stings, Let the old ghosts go where the north wind blows.The world is a chorus of quiet things, Waiting for the moment the first green shows.
