Was there a wind?
Tap . . … tap …
Night pads upon the snow
With moccasined feet,
And it is still . … so still . .,
An eagle’s feather
Might fall like a stone.
Could there have been a storm,
Mad-tossing golden mane
on the neck of the wind-
Tearing up the sky,
loose-flapping like a tent
about the ice-capped stars?
Cool, sheer and motionless,
The frosted pines
Are jewelled with a million flaming points,
That Aling their beauty up in long white sheaves
Till they catch hands with stars.
Could there have been a wind
That haled them by the hair,
And blinding
Blue-forked
Flowers of the lightning
In their leaves?
Tap …. tap …
Slow-ticking centuries …
Soft as bare feet upon the snow ..
Faint …. lulling as heard rain
upon heaped leaves …
So silence builds her wall
about a dream impaled.
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