Yet another early poem (early that is from my 2nd life in poetry, circa mid-80s):

Time now for the trees to shroud the earth
with their dark branches, time
when the wind dies down,
and over the still mirror
a faded voice is whispering.

Time again to climb into the old
music-box in the forest,
and wind the iron spring–

it is letter by letter,
line by line.