Faces of natives turn inward
like talk in uncertain throats.
Small replicas of life eclipse
inside shuttered eyes,
narrow horizons between stones,
and still ponds, frayed with
pitchpine and knotted oak,
tinder of witches.
Underneath pewter skies they winter
through fog where only ice is genuine;
And it spare as a puritan,
with the color of silver.
Val Morehouse
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-people/
