Resisting Winter

Oh land of snow and biting ice, what have you in store for me? Above the wood the white moon starts her voyaging through all the nights and the silence seems to creak. In your soil, beneath the sod, shivering my good dead lie, while my sick soul reaches out to every dream, oh, Abishag!…

Days Poor and Rich (IV)

The world’s a flute which has mouthpieces by the score. And each plays his own tune. It makes a sad refrain in which I cannot hear my own sound any more. And you? Maybe you too have tapped at many a pane, and been like me sent packing, sad and sore. And yet: I dreamed,…