The ground is white, and the air is frozen.
Motionless, death has fallen over the garden.
Silent, not a bird here nor in Brooklyn.
The houses spit smoke, not a man to be seen.
The ground lays untouched, like a still screen.
I take my steps, and I break the muted air.
Like a child, I take advantage of the situation.
I refuse to be isolated in a room of despair.
With a hammer in hand, I quicken the construction.
The building will never be complete, as life is never complete.
When the hours of summer deplete,
and warm days become seldom,
I know, that winter has come.