a poem...

Adventus

This is the hour when the final snow falls
from bare branches trembling like plucked strings
the sun bleeds and the last songbird sings
for the graying of the sky and the winter squalls

hear bare branches trembling like plucked strings
hear too in memory the voice that always calls
for the graying of the sky and the winter squalls
as the memory of that voice yet stings

hear too in memory the voice that always calls
a heart to the world from the nothingness that rings
as the memory of that voice yet stings
and the ivy is dying on the cold brick walls

a heart to the world from the nothingness that rings
that world is afire with a thought that appalls
and the ivy is dying on the cold brick walls
yet the voice calls Time like a trap that springs