there are songs that sing through the grasses
far off, round the other end of autumn
we must make do with songs
to be found underfoot
in the crackle of boots packing down winter
over the browned, imbedded remnants of summer
in the tune carried by a winded moan
wrenching itself through the cracks around
the closed door, seeking warmth
as all living things do
in what music may fit the bars writ across
a grey page of sky, crescendo con adagio
snow sighed to earth
there are songs that sing through the grasses
throats burned raw by air starved dry
don't have the range to last their last measures
there are also simpler songs
less excitable
that even lungs lined with frost and exhaustion
can carry through the longest dark
to the edge of light. | 
