Louise Driscoll

THERE’S the crystal shiver of an icicle

Falling from a bank where the runnels are deep

That the last snow cut in the red-brown bank

Where the melting frost-rills creep.

The pine tree branches are bending low

With a wet, white weight; and a woodpecker drums

On a locust tree that will blossom white

When the call for honey comes.

The elm tree is gray with a purple shade,

And the sky seems to hang too low;

But I’ve seen a light that the willows made,

Yellow against the snow.

The edge of the wind is dull and wet;

The thin ice over the stream looks black;

And I know that power to power is set,

And winter is turning back.