Is it dead because

It is dead—

silent

As you stand an alien displaced in the white expanse of 

Nothing 

Only an almost violent

humming 

In your ear

Because strange armies of spruces bow

Their foreheads low

Under the force shield of snow 

as if

Suspended eternally

In prehistoric prayers

You can’t seem to hear

Because it’ll take two more days

For a stray movement 

to 

                                             flit

In your peripheral vision 

and you — a reclusive 

seer

Watching 

from your sequestered sphere

A mug of steaming coffee in your hands

But

no means to

Contact no

Means

to

Belong