Ringing

There is no silence like winter silence.

At dawn the clipped birdsong, the live wires cut.

There’s the glow that strains against the deafening nothing,

the gold that stains the heaving snow.

The terrors and sorrows stilled on the wind,

caught in the suffocating white.

The untrodden quilt.

The blue of the void:

a blue that fills the whole world.

There is grace ringing in the fields.