Twenty below, and tulips unfolded
for such sun flowing through glass

as though tulips were all.


On the snow, the notion of trees
rested in blue shadow.


I found absence on a lake:
an island whose snow showed

no footsteps.


Where the ice was restless
against the shore, a pool

of blackest water,

and within, much darker still,
the numinous eye of an otter.


Snow on bare branches buried
the shadows

until the wind
set them free.


The pine bowed, burdened
with snow, but for one green branch

floating in the sunlight.


On a still morning when air
had no more substance than the spaces

between the stars, night’s last breath
was a blue mist that lingered

upon the lake’s white breast.