The window showed a willow in the west,
But windy dry. No folly weeping there.
A sparrow wrung a wire about its breast
And spun across the air.
Instead of paying winter any mind,
I ran my fingerprints across the glass,
To feel the crystal forest sown by wind,
And one small face:
A child among the frozen bushes lost,
Breaking the white and rigid twigs between
Fingers more heavenly than hands of dust,
And fingernails more clean.
Beyond, the willow would not cry for cold,
The sparrow hovered long enough to stare;
The face between me and the wintered world
Began to disappear;
Because some friendly hands behind my back
Fumbled the coal and tended up the fire.
Warmth of the room waved to the window sash,
The face among the forest fell to air.
The glass began to weep instead of eyes,
A slow gray feather floated down the sky.
Delicate bone, finger and bush, and eyes
Yearned to the kissing fire and fell away.
Over the naked pasture and beyond,
A frozen bird lay down among the dead
Weeds, and the willow strode upon the wind
And would not bow its head.
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