ROBERT PINSKY
A brilliant beard of ice
Hangs from the edge of the roof
Harsh and heavy as glass.
The spikes a child breaks off
Taste of wool and the sun.
In the house, some straw for a bed,
Circled by a little train,
Is the tiny image of God.
The sky is fiery blue,
And a fiery morning light
Burns on the fresh deep snow:
Not one track in the street.
Just as the carols tell
Everything is calm and bright:
The town lying still,
The street cold and white.
Is only one child awake,
Breaking the crystal chimes?—
Knocking them down with a stick,
Leaving the broken stems.
1983