Snow has fallen on these low-lying hills,
now burnt to a cinder white-like they lie.
Silence has almost come into its own:
a face of the world filling my window.
Yet, there are sounds still to this imperfect
fast: birds eat the tit-bits of melodies,
the city drones now like some forever
imperfect thing: discordant on the air.
O peace and presence of Christ -- not afar
but here within my breast -- how pure that chrome!
And the path that leads to it, treacherous
only in ambiguities that lure
away, like birds scribbling on the silence,
and the heart's moans in its fleshly city.
