I have written the first new song
of February—
there is no
winter
in
it,
no
spring
in it,
no summer,
no fall in my words:
she will not return, or hear them.
How can I sing of this? Why write,
without a season?
All I do
is think
of
her.
Birds,
come
to me:
turn, look north;
wake me with birdsong—
build new your nests, wordless at dawn.