At winter solstice Can you find the right words? On the surface, letters add Little to the capital search. But buried beneath the cases Are the common shapes for tongues to fit. So, child, blow The wind with lips pursed. The grey evocations of winter Wilt the chary flames of autumn and die at equinox, To drip from eaves in afterthought. But now the weeks have passed Into solstice. Months die away. The year and day remain The weather of a calendar, although not the same as weather Itself. The primer page will tell no fortune except to tell how The course is run. Hills and valleys… along the lively surface, Your tiny soda-bottle fingers, chubby with their growth To come, trace and sculpt, and find and fail and find again.