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.