by Louise Glück

    Is it winter again， is it cold again，

    didn't Frank just slip on the ice，

    didn't he heal， weren't the spring seeds planted

    didn't the night end，

    didn't the melting ice

    flood the narrow gutters

    wasn't my body

    rescued， wasn't it safe

    didn't the scar form， invisible

    above the injury

    terror and cold，

    didn't they just end， wasn't the back garden

    harrowed and planted——

    I remember how the earth felt， red and dense，

    in stiff rows， weren't the seeds planted，

    didn't vines climb the south wall

    I can't hear your voice

    for the wind's cries， whistling over the bare ground

    I no longer care

    what sound it makes

    when was I silenced， when did it first seem

    pointless to describe that sound

    what it sounds like can't change what it is——

    didn't the night end， wasn't the earth

    safe when it was planted

    didn't we plant the seeds，

    weren't we necessary to the earth，

    the vines， were they harvested？