TWO POEMS FROM SLIGO CREEK

2. FROST

Frost,
ice that is nearly tulle or silver snow
on the filigree branches: the trees
that once were and shall be again
(unlike us).

It is time
to stand up and say good-bye,
to pack away another year
into a body that can bear no more.

Cruel and perfect order of the world:
the symmetry
of crystals
petrified in the dead woods;
ice that must break,
snow turning back into clouds,
the desert
of I'm leaving now in silence.