![]() ![]() But I was going to say when truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice storm, (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows - Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load And they seem not to break though once they are bowed So low for long they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. ![]() Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust - Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |