Blowing down powdersnow from a pine branch
onto cold, light grey shadows; in the wilderness

(The verge of the ground a reminder of Our gathering.)


Gently gave Water and Wind Life to the cloud
meanwhile snow journeyed in a concern to remain
upon forest hills stones; to be glanced towards the edge

(Finding Now in the stillness,
in a fleeing movement:
All gone and awaiting time.)


Somewhat hesitant break runnels through the ice,
somewhat insolent, asking: When do We reach Home?


This so grievously lovable clarity’s Winterglade
is surely leaving its Answers in the abstruse
alike streamcaressed stones over the creeks have stayed

in the frozen years



Demand our new freedom, as all other time is stricken.