AFTERMARK

Snow falls from next to nothing

To a cambric cover on dazzling

Hills.  What genius can grow

Particles so crystalline, then throw

Them down on floors of earthen

Ware and fallow crops, giving birth in

Such numbers to these dollops

Of snow that each white-capped top

Of conifer and cone has its own

Archipelago of flakes, blown

Amethyst just touching with one

Foot the molecules of sun

That rest on the forest’s root?

 

In fall, through the open leaves

Of a grove where the breeze

Carried the damp of the wood

To the matted patch where we stood,

Bees mulled in the light, lulled

And threatened, obstacles

To the food, the view, broke

Through the warm spokes

 

Of grass, insistent calypso

In the August window.

Afternoon whittled the boughs;

The month lay before us.  How

Long we stood under the trees

Before the first freeze,

Apples and needles falling around

Our privileged ground.

 

The view returns in its sleep,

Picnic lunch packed, apples eaten,

The countryside deepened in snow

That was thick with leaves - no

Bees disturb the quiet drop

Of night; no season stops.

In the glistening rubble

Of winter, bees are no trouble.

An iris pales in the meadow,

Fragrant, small, surrounded by so

Many tufts.  Now there is never enough

Of the hazel, the daisy, the fluff.

What was only a nice touch

In the field is too much,

Too real in the cold wind of the other

Season, which snow softly covers.