This is the quiet hour,
When the weight of self slips back down to earth
So long held at bay
By fragile confidence.
And the cold pushes back
Against the once-proud heat,
And the snow soaks through
Any lingering heat of passion:
Even the trees stoop
And bend flaccid.
And the road that seemed so clear
Has become obscured
This is the quietest hour
When the snow has come,
And even the heavens are silent.
But there shall come children of innocence -
And from the snow, their better angels
While plots spite the isolation
That has crept down in darkness,
While the town wakes late
And shovels their driveways Back into existence.
And life trudges on
Though the cold has settled in
For a season.