Years of Silence

we get used to winter's grey lid

when sunlight becomes a memory,

colour fading into a mash of leaves

on wet streets and sidewalks,

the ceiling of our expectations

coming down like autumn rain;

standing still we're like old growth trees,

catching mist in our moss-covered branches,

root shot through with years of silence

falling into winter's sleep

to grow the many songs of spring.

Don Hynes