in the quiet of my winter window's solitude
I gaze upon the military scene
that is my life: a cold and lonely battlefield
where strife when trodden in the snow
implores around, and asks what has been gained—
a fruitless search, an agony of questions,
doubts, puzzles, that weigh without a scarf
to bundle their fond maker's wreathed dream.
all seems empty, and the plow
which tortures day to never-ending nights
perceives within its granite essence
the being of a flower, cast upon the ground,
stooped to by no piquant life
or other all-ran castings of the sun.
questions to be asked, and when
will they be silenced? when the hue
of the willow tree be seen for glory?
what have I achieved, and what
my sheer reward when if I had?—
a broken set of dishes, set for dinner
with no company, no table, no candle,
no food to lighten the yearn, or yawn.
beside it all a carriage waits, lending
resplendence with its glories to all the fruits
which peeled for rape or love
(they knew not which); a whisk and it is gone,
but does not go. and that is the silence
for which I brave my charred remorse.
—jim sloman, december 1, 1964
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