Each stray reminder of your home lifenis hung on the wind that pulls away from younas the walls of the mountains in the cold lightnglow red in an echo of the flares on highnin the vault of the nightnnIn the frost on the branches and the clotheslinesna fierce little wren is singing loud and highnwhile his eyes, insisting on their own life,ngave legs to the lienthat there is world and timento grow old in its lightnnIn the last of the embers of the twilightnthe gunmetal air has come alive with birdsnThey burst from the clouds above the snow linenand bloom in the ashes of the old black skynand go back to the night