The snow will make no noise, but clasp the ground in silence,
slowly muffling, snuffing-out, all but the sound of silence.
A blood moon will rise beyond the last wisps of withered wheat
and deepening chills of wind blow circles around the silence.
Old uncle at the festivities, mostly a piece of history, still
he will hear a calliope, watch a merry-go-round in silence.
Sometimes the songs my mother never sang to me
drift on the blown flurries over her stony mound of silence.
So many poems have simply died for a lack of sounding;
are locked, like the terminal years of Ezra Pound, in silence.
What cannot be said, once and for all, howls dreadfully
like a two-headed dog that continues to hound the silence.
It was too early, earlier, and now it’s become too late
to fix what broke or rewind the clocks unwound by silence.
See how kindness is kin to snow in the darkness—
flakes floating down to a stately, dumbfounded silence.
THE SNOW WILL MAKE NO NOISE
The slight interfering noise towards the end of the audio was contributed by my dog, Chloë , who was nearby, lying on her back with her paws in the air, wriggling and panting with joy.