The leaves have at last slipped from the treesAnd capped the snail trails along the concrete steps,With winter tasks completed, windows caulkedBeside the smooth inebriations of chimney smoke. We feel a portent wafting on cold breeze:An omen marked by frost upon the panes.The wind snatches the notes that we once spoke,And in the silence children huddle like refrains. The fires are stoked, the quilts folded with easeAround the margins like an envelope,And every hearth that opens its mouth to singEmits a fear not greater than its hope.
The Century's work relies primarily on subscriptions and donations. Thank you for supporting nonprofit journalism.
Support us by buying books: