where willows grow
Silence is the thud at night
of fruits on the frozen soil
Silence is the spinning din of starlings,
the sweeps of crows
on top of the drowsy garden,
the slight song of the samovar,
the sky over the frosted pane
But then silence can also be
this old and mouldy ladder
left
leaning against a barred exit
left
leaning against a barred exit
Silence can be
an entire life of howling
at the door
Sylvie M. Miller
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