In the silence of the morning
Among shelves of well-used books,
I see the few snowflakes fall,
And the brown stalks swaying
With parched winter green.
Once, I had huddled
In musty stacks of unread theses
Over diagrams thick with the cycles
Of carbon and life.
Now, my pen scratches,
And I hear the leafing of pages
Against the tap tap of keyboards
And a well-modulated whisper
Heard above my breathing.