We walked on tender, heaving pelt
That formed in lines that have sucked moist
Out of the giving air.
The rheumatic fingers of yet-living-trees
The trunks that have laid,
Bleeding fresh sap.
In that scent there was all that the valleys have snowed:
Frozen footsteps and waters that seethed under ice,
Carpeting rivers,
And workers with saws, their faces in blood:
Spitting “New Year”, peacefully ending
That day’s desecration.
Yet the Sun threw its foil over tenebrous hills,
Winked and waned in sparkling crown
For the last time
In the falling year.