In Winter

If I am god then Why can’t I roll back the stone And walk right through the morning back home? Back to the self for which I atone. People are asleep by the fire— The snow hits; They talk until I’m tired. I call out for you in the dead quiet, Still, I don’t know if I'm here alone. You’re just as bored as I am at home, In the winter where life is as dead, As everything I called my own; You can’t pick up the phone. I can’t cry for coming so close, Or let it die without feeling it go.