In the twilight the rainis like silk threads.Its beauty is deceptive.Snow has piled uplike mounds of salt.My bed is suddenly cold.I’m unable to sleep.All night I hear ice crackon the roof and in the eaves.Wind chaotically blowsthe last of fall’s leaves.The birds have longsince departed. Alone,I reach for the light.But I can no longer write.Who writes poetry anyway?Young men withunreal…