I believe now,
their faith,
growing absent in the garden,
skin-and-bones behind
cold stones,
and in creases of soil
they shed nettles,
almost
by hand,
in them admonishing their
preparations for regret,
seeing that
they take
from the windows
their lessening reflections,
then bear them,
because winter is the garden
of the desert,
because winter breathes the dead
into light.