The tick of the clock into midnight
it is silent here, save for the wind
in the wood, save for the sigh of the trees.

Something is different, something the same.
The frost creeps across a bridge of branches
cracks puddles into ice, frozen fingers.

This time she rides into the clearing,
this time she glances into fields that
are empty, calls out a name: silence.

She reaches inside, still finds emotion,
hears a break in the silence, hears a call
hopes, is mistaken, the year passes…