Brave things are happening

in the garden when I'm not looking.

The junction of each branch

holds its sobriety.

Frost no longer attempts to fasten

onto the deepest roots,

but still I'm not sure about trusting

myself with the distances.

In the house, they come to terms.

The youngest has gone;

the rooms vibrate, my father weighs

his son's glasses in his hands.

The word they use for zero is shunya.

They come to terms with its blank centre.