once
it
has snowed—
helm of pines
whiter than
doves, wind-flumine,
trapeze of
boughs ache the
lark, bowed—
inward, curve of Earth,
gentle ray of light
lifts
like hands holding
the sky above, birds roared
through
the interstices,
strophe by strophe
homes thwart fires in hearths,
no warmness
gilded the vertigo of pinecone.