And here again to the flight of leaves and birds
Through sky-space and the dusty stickweed bonnets;
Here to the pawpaw thickets lush with frosted fruit,
To the hills new in their silent wintering,
And the clean white mantle of snow new-fallen.
Come down from the hills when the days curl
Into early dark, when hours crowd the thick door
And slip through sill cracks to the bitter air;
Come when the hollowed ice has claimed the grass
And blown its breath across the haggard months.
The fox has writ its passage on the frozen ridge,
The crows their feedings in the glassy sedge,
And iced white wings of death stalk in the coves.
Come down from the hills. O never know
The stark thawing agony of blood on snow.