The days grow harsh,
how the sun makes everything black
but the snow and the sky,
How the nights call to be fed,
roaring in the woods as if starved
for the souls of the living,
And on every hill,
the massed sighs of the lost,
how they shake this old farmhouse,
Its adzed timbers creaking around me
as faces of the earth recede in the dark,
how the wind tells me there's no place to hide.
