Angels from the realms of Glory -- departing; Godspeed.
(so deserted; the pear tree — my fruit tree. Where is the fruit?)
where is the hope?
-- the bees are gone --
-- the season having flown --
(where are my Hostas? Where are the ferns with tiny leaves?)
it is the dead of winter
barren landscape resurrected for you fifty some-odd times.
in winter, some things die!
(yes, I know.
I just needed to hear it from you.)
wind blows through the January husks
--- the wonder we see in summer ---
Fallow - now. At rest.
We find birth, again; on some raw, new time.
in that span of time. (oh, the fuzzy math)