The Young

The young, whose bones are not brittle
and whose blood runs hot.
do not see
in the starkness of winter
the snow’s disguise
of hedges and ledges of rock;

are unaware
of the subtle change of color
in a winter sky
or the miracle of water
turned brittle.

We, who are old,
know that coats and sweaters can’t control
the interior cold
that gets inside the trees
and our bones;

how brittle bones
give form to winter experience,
so what we see
are not whatever is missing,
only naked trees
and converging lines
of grey stubble;

knowing such as these
are what we ourselves have become:
jutting bones,
hanging skin, stringy muscles;

our memory likewise at a loss,
so buried, so deeply frozen
Spring cannot defrost.