* * *
wall of remote
heights & bends
of listless fields
turn savagely
to the river
where the trees
snap in the snow
a bird watches
the frozen mice
deer
i am sick
of talking about
vietnam
these bridges:
stringent iron
under which
Poems on the topic: snow
Poems on the topic “snow” on Poets.by.
After Reading, a Song
a light snow
a had been fallen
the brown most showed
knoll trunk knot treelings' U's
The Sound marsh water
ice clump
sparkling root etc
and so far out.
* * *
That the neighborhood might be covered
by one roof, occured
this morning, Snow on the ground
phonepoles, flagpoles,
windows, so many chimneys,
even up the hill
grass smoking out west
the tides, clouds from the past
vanishing rain
the base.
beaten out,
death when you don't want it what you like
is a plain object
the long-trunked clouds
a weltered event
shale fish broken off
I. 15. 73
winter takes a break everybody has the london flu
takes it easy so why not him our backyard is an
icebox turned on defrost. through all pores drips
melts runs how vulgar can you get. as snow dis-
appears old garbage reappears and i read
" a nest is a bird's house "
i've known this for a long time people have told
me for a long time it is such an old story in
fact i hesitate to repeat it. nests are places of
intimacy designated by an attraction. there does
not exist an intimacy that is repellent. its being
is well being. and memory is a wardrobe with the
presence of lavender the history of the seasons
enters. what dreams are reserved for us if we re-
call the land of tranquility. memories come crowd-
The Will of Andre Breton
When books are trapped
in the snow
they could be camelias
or bald headed men
collected predicaments
magnificent translations
a shape
something to remember
and relearn
When music is siphoned
through a weather vane
water will freeze
on the strings of the violin
The ice age will sound
silently
A time will come
Four Poems 3
hiking
out of sight
of pines & view of pines
& long snowfooting woods
ass down to beaver
pond & gathered puzzle
grass
round
slender ash some
beaver cat axed /
hiked out.
my heels
at my heels,ground
spruce,
patches of quartz
in the fields raising up
* * *
Mountain snow fields
seen through transparent wings of a fly
on windowpane
Bright April Clouds
bright April clouds
bits of snow left beneath
the mountain pine
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The Runaway
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, ‘Whose colt?’
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
‘I think the little fellow’s afraid of the snow.
He isn’t winter-broken. It isn’t play
With the little fellow at all. He’s running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, “Sakes,
It’s only weather.” He’d think she didn’t know!
Where is his mother? He can’t be out alone.’
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Storm Fear
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’--
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,--
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
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