Hoarfrost in Eastern Washington

THE RIME – ICE CYCLE


1. Garland

Mist pours, sifts,

Drifts and lingers

On the streetlights,

On the hundred hands

Of leafless trees

Frozen in sleep,

And each small thing:

Twig and grass,

The bent grain,

The mute clothesline.

It calcifies

Into crumble-soft frost:

Winter’s garland and cat’s cradle

For the hands of the trees.

2. Hoarfrost

Next morning, fog is gone…

And black limbs gilded

With shimmering flakes,

Crowned with a crust of sun,

Sheathed in silver. They breathe

A white image in the air.

Last night they stood

Both naked and dark;

But in my sleep,

He highlighted them Himself,

Edged them with his glory,

And their rim wears a crystal skin,

A garment of light…

The clue of His passing, the remnant

Of His whispering robe.

3. Silverfall

As strong light waxes full,

The sun’s bright fingers flick off

The gathered shine, loosing the rime

Like soft stained–glass breaking.

They whirl somersaulting,

With glints and winks

Onto the snow underneath.

They lose themselves,

And in their anonymity

Whisper to their fellows

Of the glory of God on a tree.