A little heat in the iron radiator,
the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,

and the windows shut tight,
encrusted with hexagons of frost.

I can barely hear the geese
complaining in the vast sky,

flying over the living and the dead,
schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.

Poem copyright ©2014 by Billy Collins, “Winter” (Poetry East, No. 82, 2014).  Poem reprinted by permission of Billy Collins and the publisher.
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