There is a faint cooing,
then the silence that comes with new snow
Buried in the hedgerow,
where the moss and dead leaves
smell faintly of earth,
there is an unmistakable warmth.
I know this,
without ever splitting the iced leaves
with my hand;
just as I know the dove is there:
pushed down into its feathers,
singing to itself that this is winter.
Copyright © 2004 Linda Schaible
Beginning February 2nd . . .
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