The fox can only
  be seen in the winter,

  after the trees
  have caught fire

  and fallen to their beds,
  after the valleys

  stand naked
  against the sky,

  when ground rises up
  to meet the dying

  and once again
  waters flood through

  leaving nothing
  but débris

  then the thief 
  struts proudly by himself
  across the landscape

  smaller than
  you’d pictured him

  going after
  disappearing sun.

                         David Radavich




Return to Christmas Poems

Return to Home Page