there are songs that sing through the grasses
far off, round the other end of autumn

we must make do with songs
to be found underfoot
in the crackle of boots packing down winter
over the browned, imbedded remnants of summer

in the tune carried by a winded moan
wrenching itself through the cracks around
the closed door, seeking warmth

as all living things do

in what music may fit the bars writ across
a grey page of sky, crescendo con adagio

snow sighed to earth

there are songs that sing through the grasses
throats burned raw by air starved dry
don't have the range to last their last measures

there are also simpler songs
less excitable
that even lungs lined with frost and exhaustion
can carry through the longest dark
to the edge of light.

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