Come, January,
white and silver; ring
silent as thrushes

cling to the stone
knuckles of the old
elm's hand too stiffened

to bend. Harden Fall's
stream to a window
on bedrock-soled veins

below where tremors 
of the distant hills'
running rains dwindle.

Turn from the hope 
born of yellow-basked,
red-breasted mornings;

with one clouded eye
torn toward my door
send dry breath to draw

the rot from beneath 
life's leavings. Sweep clear
my undisturbed path.