like a caesura, at the end of a long musical note
time finds its element in winter, stations itself
at the centre of things and non-things;
the texture of time and thought are the same—not palpable to touch or sense;
winter is a time when time looks back
while the landscape broods
time never broods—meditation is its other name;
it meditates on black bark, snowless winter
hibernation and polar bears,
and wind whetting its razor on eroded slopes.
time also hunkers down, thinking of  absences,
(absence is a being after all, absences pulse, hide in corners, caves).
then time allows an intrusion in its trance—
the absence of the barbet and its concertina-throated call.
winter is a time when time looks back
absence turns companion;
fall after fall, winter after winter
the barbet and its call go missing
a bird-shadow current, warmed by the memory
of some distant summer, passes by, and from its
Hidden hole in the tree of time the bird calls Korea care;
so much longing and hope in its two-word language.
cold again and the tree hole silent
till the mango flower puts out its fluff
this time the call  from its heavy red bill
is an octave lower—for it calls in retrospect.
 
solitude takes a long lingering look at solitude,

Poem from indian magazine