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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