Monday, January 11, 2010

The Snow

The Snow

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, --
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, --
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, --
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

--Emily Dickinson
photo by Geoffrey A. Landis, 2009


Pressin On said...

this is great--know any icicle poems?
i can't recall such icicles!! amazing for some days recent.

Runechris said...

like it.... brrrr...


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau