There is no silence
like the silence of people
thoughtfully communing, pondering
the sliver of brick wall through the window
and snow on the tops of gravestones,
how the elm tree tangles itself,
the intricacies of our knotted benches
(what earth did they grow in?
what people loved against its hollows?)

We are making only our human noises
a heaving sigh,
the rumble of a stomach
and tap of a foot,
a cough, harsh
then muffled in a sleeve,
and a mother’s arm rustling
on her son’s shoulder

we feel the impermanent,
hear the immaterial

Outside, the trees’ iced branches
look like chandeliers shimmering with sun

Who will ponder this tangled light
long after this gathering has dispersed?
one day, all that will be left of us
is wondrous silence

A woman stands
She is stocky with life,
squat to the ground.
She has been moved by language

Today is the winter solstice
Each new day, the earth will be renewing itself.

She looks out a window
that is frosted with human warmth.

Tomorrow, there will be more light.