The Bus Ride In The Blizzard

As I escape by bus, I think of him,
my uncle who has kept his house the same
for over fifty years: yellow newsprint
banners, 'Sputnik into Space! '-UFO
beneath stained saucers, crack-marred cups and plates.
And back, far back, a hundred miles in storm
his eight clocks trace the pace of pulse at home.
He's grown old, but his firm house won't break faith
Yet something's lost, and snow on windshield
tells, tolls another timepiece. Still wind howls
and vows that fading forever's falling down.
Once, lilting birds chimed, lofting uncle's grounds-
but now no call at all to hail him home.
The god that loved us is the god that died.

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