Turmoil of crows melts into cold fields;
chickadees throw arcs of whistle across the trees.
Winter creeps from the corners of a great gray sky,
twists back with a glower and a growl:

Come away to the crackle of the ice-bound seas
and the long white hands of the giants of the north.

Or stay in the warm wilds,
in the feather bed of some pine-scented saint
who swallows the swell of the young days
under a thick sun, fat as butter.

Lower your red-rimmed eyes
before the push and rise of the newborn green;
fingers that scrabble like spiderlings
across the breast of the breathless world,
leave stripling shadows on the face of a two-poled God.

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