Well into Winter

The moon goes down like a coin. Spent,
even memory is becoming a memory.

Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
on her desiccated perch.
Her feathers are the opposite of snow.

The day has never been so much the night
and vice versa. And the afternoon
never so much the afternoon.
Meanwhile, meanwhile.

Years ago, a child put a coin
in the crook of this tree.
Now, the sun is drawn up
like a pail from a well.
The pail is poured out and snow.

—John Poch, “Well into Winter.