THE hoar-frost crumbles in the
sun,
The
crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black
birds
Sweep past the window again.
Along the vacant road, a
red
Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
To leap down at our
gate.
He has passed us by; but is
it
Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing
that still
She has no rest.