The river-fog will do for privacy

　　on the low road a breath

　　here， there， a cloudiness floating on the black top

　　sunflower heads turned black and bowed

　　the seas of corn a stubble

　　the old routes flowing north， if not to freedom

　　no human figure now in sight

　　（with whom do you believe your lot is cast？）

　　only the functional figure of the scarecrow

　　the cut corn， ground to shreds， heaped in a shape

　　like an Indian burial mound

　　a haunted-looking， ordinary thing

　　The work of winter starts fermenting in my head

　　how with the hands of a lover or a midwife

　　to hold back till the time is right

　　force nothing， be unforced

　　accept no giant miracles of growth

　　by counterfeit light

　　trust roots， allow the days to shrink

　　give credence to these slender means

　　wait without sadness and with grave impatience

　　here in the north where winter has a meaning

　　where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen

　　where nothing is promised

　　learn what an underground journey

　　has been， might have to be； speak in a winter code

　　let fog， sleet， translate； wind， carry them.

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