Woods in Snow

Summary

It is the fell hour of the year

and we should not have lingered,

but from the field the sky

opened its wings, its fire-brushed feathers.

Between the snow-weighted branches

the dark mists and glitters –

a far-flung galaxy brought near,

a spin of flakes bright as whispers,

and here – true, oh, be true to it –

this closeness of hands, eyes, hearts,

our stilled breath a skipped beat –

in the braided grass, the hind asleep.