Muzaffarabad

Giving always
To plowshare tilt
Through seasonal sprouting
Perennial plenty, bearing ranches
In cultivated order or nature's own way. This land
With a shiver
The earth's dark design
Pushed the present into the past.
This is how the land can speak,
A land pushing against itself.
Snows have come to mountains,
Whitewashing pastures and pines,
Denuding the late-fruit trees.
The wind carries seeping chill
To where we stand, sit, sleep.
Not beyond measure
Yet, all must submit to it.
And attend in the placid afternoon
To the slow, long aftermath.
And begin again.