Just yesterday these trees were bare
But now they’re feathered thick with snow.
Such seasoned stillness holds it there.
The world is quiet, cold—although
I spy a cardinal resting on
A bending, overladen limb;
A bright red ruby cabochon
With diamonds to encircle him.
He looks at me a bit askance
To halt my steps. I acquiesce.
He holds me like I’m in a trance
To merge me with the motionless.
This poem is from the Winter 2021 issue of Modern Age.
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Founded in 1957 by Russell Kirk and Henry Regnery, Modern Age is a journal of conservative thought and a magazine devoted to culture, history, philosophy, and the ideas behind the great currents of modern life. Follow us on X @ModAgeJournal
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