Fruit of the flesh

Time itself is not change
           nor does wisdom
come with age :
           the fine powdery snow
blowing at our window
           will not settle
it will be gone tomorrow
           though today
we find ourselves
           landlocked
trapped within a moment
           within the taut dimensions
of our own making
           and with decisions
on the tip
           of the tongue

Last night not a peep
           from the foxes
snugly buried
           in their burrows
the quiet universe
           a soundstage
for our words
           stars falling
in icy fragments
           and always
the question of love
           fruit of the flesh
and what if anything
            we will make of it

John Lyons

Reposted from yesterday with corrections