Jun 042015
If wind were ice, November-locked In transparent cubes of square air, Invisible but real as winter's despair, If shear hills were told no taller' by the crack Of the whittling wind knifing Diamond summer down to rhinestones, Would man in his troubles hunch huddled, Alone before the ruddy fingers of his fire? Would he hear the crossed, cracked sticks Of winter rip in air's transparent box? If wind were ice when November knocks, Yawning trees would creak and settle down to sleep, Restless a final time in the weather's windy knots Before ash and elm turn their backs for good On icicle wind that can crack them dead And go to sleep together as a naked wood.
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