Everything is talking, endlessly,
Every hill announces itself into the sky,
And each morning we are named by sunlight.
There is a cold wind which touches gently
That clears bare the branches of the trees.
We forget, each year, the warmth in light
That reveals the street so brightly, fiercely,
Anointing the passing car with fire.
Memory awaits us in the scent of the soil
Where we meet like old friends beneath the clock.