--Linda Pastan
At the waning of the century,
with the weather warming
and even the seasons losing their way
listen to me. It is time
to sit still, to tilt your face
to the light and catch the notes of music
which sweeten the tongue
like snowflakes as they fall and melt
this bare December morning.
Your mouth was shaped for lullaby
or hymn, and your refusal
to sing bewilders
whole octaves of air. Enough
abstinence. Each day
that ends is gone, not a leaf is left
and soon enough it will be
time to sleep under the sway
of all that silence.
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