Winter Dawn in a Country Kitchen

DAEK, dark, precious and volatile hour;
Old and deeply accustomed hour;
Aware of Time.

Clock tick,
Water drip,
Frost creak,
Snow whisper,
A freight far off hooting the unborn day;
Time, out there in the dark.

Could I catch Time by the ragged coat, and set him down here by me?
Here at the kitchen table, under the bare 100-watt lamp, —
(The table covered with grass-green oilcloth, shining like Spring) —
Could I pour him a pint, of coffee, scalding, with inches of cream,
And four large sugar-lumps, in a thick white mug? He would drink it with thirsty frozen gulps.
His peaked head would fall forward over his bones.
With happy snores he would sleep, and sleep, being warm,
Forgetting that he is Time.

I would hold my breath beside him until he woke,
And grunted and shuffled away.
I would keep this hour my own:
Before the dawn:
With those I love all safe in their dreamy beds,
With four good dogs adoze behind stove, behind bench, behind door,
With fat little mice uncaught in the pantry drawer,
(Having chewed the cheese from the trap two nights ago),
With the Christmas Tree in the dark hall drooping its sweet dry balsam
heavy with tinsel angels and ice-barbs and birds,
With bat-black panes of the windows above the sink.

This would be mine:
This sweet warm human safety, supreme. And mine.

But Time has never smelt coffee brewing. He sleeps no wink.
His beard is cold on the panes with the whispering snow.
My treasure is insecure.

The clock ticks fast.
The panes blur white to the day, —
I must drink my coffee alone.
Time went by in the dark.
Time has no tryst with me. . . .