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.


This poem is in the public domain.