On Hearing of Albert's Death

Kristen Orser
And this is that time of snow,

already gone 
	on the tongue

Have you heard, I stand like a bird

waiting for the alder to return to catkin;

	for you to turn 

		and tell if death has a sound

By now the voice is soft as the pionus,

like stones
		whose parts are carried off
		in wind and water

along with the echo,
the shortened strawberry season

So the day goes past
with a whisper of welkin