Great archipelagos up high,
Satellites of snowfall on the trees,
Orbiting our skilift in the sky
And suddenly unleashed by breeze,

Fall slowly through the air
Like exploding galaxies of white,
Floating past our moving chair
To land on pillows for the night,

Engraving in the shadows on the ground
Replicas of their former world,
Planets that our wind has downed,
Sculptures that the earth has hurled

From a dream of tree limb
To the winter’s passing floor,
To advertize an old museum
Behind the forest’s open door.