O tunnel of firs,
tied with rain, 
were you watching too, 
when my parapet 
ate a hock of indigo 
at seven, and, still hungry,
gobbled a dull star?
Were you watching
from cold roots, 
little grove, when
something unfaithful 
happened? A curling lip
received a sacrament
of apple cider vinegar
under clouds of hospital gauze.
O firs, you never tell me anything, 
too proud by half in your 
gowns of needles.  
That's alright - I'll lay until 
the night slips over the line,
and imagine a kind of morning
where I have nothing to tell you either.

Postscript

The snow has stopped
And the firs shed their diamonds
To flash in the sun