I'll not walk on white-crystal grass. This frost
will soften and then uncrushed blades, no cost
of glassy cells will suffer underfoot.
Green will resume the kingdom of our thought.
The apple tree's a filigree of light
when ice runs molten under blonde sunlight -
a basketwork of solar-fire-display.
Noon sun holds such irresistible sway.
Voluble birds flutter to remind
of hunger, exigence to which we're blind.
Their feathers, their true treasures, shine divine,
trill-song, flit-flap and blinking eyes combine,
to 'beg and cozen' giants to provide -
allegiances to bridge the cold divide.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesíaIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
