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.