Still Heard but Faintly

What chime struck from the iron air
will warm us when a view from the window
shows the shrunken days
wrapped in clouds and shawls of snow.
Bitter winds remind us
of the glimpse of a sinking sun
on its far horizon.
We long for the glory
of a vision thrice betrayed
on this dark day when green shoots
are folded in roots asleep.
A distant chant reminds us
of an apocalypse in a stable
and we strain to hear a faint note
of peace and good will.