from Word from the Hills

a sonnet sequence in four movements

by Richard Moore
11
You were so solid, father, cold and raw
as these north winters, where your angry
will
first hardened, as the earth when the long
chill
deepensas is this country's cruel law
yet under trackless snow, without a flaw
covering meadow, road, and stubbled hill,
the springs and muffled streams were
running still,
dark until spring came, and the awful thaw.
In your decay a gentleness appears
I hadn't guessedwhen, gray as rotting
snow,
propped in your chair, your face will run
with tears,
trying to speak, and your hand, stiff and
slow,
will touch my childwho, sensing the cold
years