Pruning in Frost
Last night, without a sound,
a ghost of a world lay down on a world,
trees like dream-wrecks
coralled with increments of frost.
and wound and wound
the clock-spring cobwebs.
All life’s ribbon frozen mid-fling.
Oh I am
feet of glass.
Work knocks in me the winter’s nail.
I can imagine
Pain, turned heron,
could fly off slowly in a creak of wings.
And I’d be staring, like one of those
cold-holy and granite kings,
getting carved into this effigy of orchard.
From The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile