Snows

That snow falling out there, not in flakes 
But in clusters of flake, little snow balls 
Loosened by November’s sun still barely struggling
Through the harvest haze, snow falling 
From all the trees we planted and nurtured, 
The moraine locust, bare now of leaves, 
Its dark branches almost writhing, twisting 
Like a maiden’s arms in distress, stretching out
And up and down, unsure of where 
They want to end. The crab, flowering 
In pure white, not the purple-pink of spring. 
The aspens we dug almost as twigs 
From their mountain grove and thrilled 
To watch them put out buds then leaves. 

From all these, our private forest, the snow drops,
Or peels in long graceful curves from taut wires,
Sometimes large loose balls trailing fine crystals.
Now a light breeze stirs still-clinging 
Apple leaves and looses a shower, the crystals drifting
Toward our patio. 
                                    A robin lights on a branch, 
A dozen robins, then a score of cedar waxwings:
A blizzard of snow, a blizzard of birds. 
A second storm lovelier than the first, 
Grace after grace.