Light stretches across the courtyard,
Intercepting snow-
Swarming particles of light
That follow each other in shimmering confusion,
As though the moon were snowing out of her mountains,
Emptying her craters of their silvery ash.
So light spins her a gossamer trestle
Swung from the flame of windows,
Reaching a broad and shining arm
On which saints might hang their garments.
Saint’s Bridge
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