Anxiety

Anxiety


The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
The crisping steam of a train


Melts in the air, while two black birds
Sweep past the window again.


Along the vacant road, a red
Bicycle approaches; I wait


In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
To leap down at our gate.


He has passed us by; but is it
Relief that starts in my breast?


Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
She has no rest.