The earth begging to cool,
to return to a winter’s winter,
to snow-muted trees,
their sap withdrawn,
the austerities of a place so pure
we could call it holy.
A juniper bush, frozen, takes
so long to mature, one can see
the berries ripen along with
the growth of the branches and
the roots as they pushed
into an open clearing,
awaiting sunlight.
But O, the shadows were
so flat on the wet snow.
They looked like a kind of red rust
as they struggled to get free—
to get caught up in a fresh breeze
as it blew across the continent
and sang of contentment,
and sang of an angel that bends
and touches earth for the first time,
even though the earth
and all its fragrances
are too strong for it, too muscular—
the smell of an old coat
gone sour with sweat,
the crux of summer.
