THE TIME OF YEAR, THE HOUR
William Virgil Davis

Snow is falling in the mountains.
For many miles wolves run without resting,
their breath like long scarves of blood.

It is the time of year, the hour,
when things cross and cross again; knock
without knowing they stand before the door.

The fire has found its lost wing,
and the end of the journey, like a shadow
of old shoes, stands waiting to be stepped into.

Water forgets its wounds.
The light has opened its long hands.
​Even the dead have stopped dying.