It's too damn quiet. I don't want the sounds
Of people - just of nature, and the world.
But even that is silent. What abounds
Is empty air, unstirred. The day is curled
Inside itself, and huddles there to warm
Its frigid minutes and frostbitten hours.
Even the silent cloud that took the form
While everything was blue, of coming showers,
A grey imagined demon in the sky
Floats on unwhispering. The total hush
Is deafening. I know that by and by
Something will come along, and boldly crush
The silence, but for now the quiet lingers
Tightening its grip with empty fingers.
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