Now winter’s come upon these hills. The last
Vermilion threads of autumn light are cast
And tangle on the ridge. But here, within
This sullen valley, winter’s come. What’s been
Has passed: the promises of spring are laid
To rest. No more the seed; no more the spade.

Let earth and all that’s in the earth lie fallow.
Let vanity take hold. Let patience hallow
All that remains. Let’s say these barren trees
That bud and burn each year are liturgies
That teach us, still, to hope—that everything
Below the sun might see undying spring.

For now, accept travail. Traverse these hills
At vagrant hours to witness choking rills
And soundless nests, to see the stillborn calf,
The wind-threshed boughs that crack and fall like chaff.
Go out, and say to all that’s desolate:
Lend us endurance; show us how to wait.