Snow falling in dark Is a child's quiet embrace Around a woman weeping. March is wild-swept woman Moving between ragged clouds Hungering for leaves Through our eyes The buds thread the loom Weaving trees with spring Sunflower's black seeds wait, The birds enter the circle And round out the day. The leaf is mute, but Floats upon the melon-light; Autumn is the river. A grey lace edge of shadow Closes the russet door But lifts us into woodland song. November corners fold Inward without a sound, And the wild sun darkens. On winter windows A stylus of dark writes lines On frozen moments.