My Alphabet Grows Pale

my alphabet grows pale,
sensing the ebbing of light.
the ebbing of light elsewhere,

there where I cannot reach.
there where I cannot reach,
instead, I feel:

someone is almost heard;
the rippling of strange birds
made stranger by encroaching

weather.
will the snow bent with the trees
cover my alphabet, cloud on cloud

until there's little said aloud?

will moonlight withdraw
so that looking back,
there may finally be

no tracks in the landscape
left to see
of a language made so small?

no tracks. at all.

mary angela douglas 26 september 2015