Winter Indoors

A friend comes from afar

and walks with me almost.

At noon the wheels disappear

over the top of the hill

with the sound of applause.

Who is this friend?

This world is cold as glass.

Ghosts return at times,

but even then stay in the past.

My awakenings are like rain

that beats on a dark window.

In the empty yard the blown rain

is almost a ghost or a man.

His face is turned away.

Actoss his back like whip marks

are the shadows of winter trees.