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.