What I Won't See This Year

What I Won't See This Year

I won't see snow on birch wood this year.
White rising from white,
leafless, black- spotted spindles
standing solemnly in rows
against a sky flat and gray as solder.

I won't see the children those late afternoons,
blades attached to feet that can fly,
chasing the fleeing sun over ice
that unspools like ribbon beneath them-
lustrous , unending, forever.

I won't see the hazy headlights of cars
floating silently homeward at twilight,
soft rays wending in and out of the trees-
beacons reflected on frozen air
rounding the silvered lake.

And I won't see the opposite shore
disappearing into blackness-or that particular view
of stars night will fling into the northern sky.
They'll be burning like distant fires-
too far away for warmth.

But when I close my eyes, I'll have gone there-
riding a long, white wave of memory.
My feet will have glided to that far shore
to stand beneath that piece of sky,
Sleeps's winter dream of peace.