All the sap was in the roots beneath our feet,
Beneath the snow that now erased
All that summer's pen had written.
Spruce and pine wore togas of
The melting white. The sun seemed
So far away.

On a branch I saw, I thought, a broken kite,
Lost on some November wind and caught
Forever, skewered on an oak-limb sword.

All at once it dropped into the air,
Caught God's hands for its trapeze tumble
And flew away.