⤂COME,JANUARY⤃ Come, January white and silver; ring silent, as thrushes cling to the stone knuckles of the old elm's hand too stiffened to bend. Harden Fall's stream to a window on bedrock-soled veins below, where tremors of the distant hills' running rains dwindle turn from the hope born of yellow-basked, red-breasted mornings; with one clouded eye torn toward my door, come in January, to my undisturbed path.