The woods are still.
Branches
are brown, bare
arms,
fingers, and twigs.
The
ice shows no signs of thaw,
the
land sleeping, dreaming
of
shapes, forms, colors, times,
access
to which is denied.
Or
perhaps it is thinking
of
epochs, the grand design
that
winter plays close to the vest.
I
do not know, I do not know.
I
tramp through snow,
my
head lowered, my thoughts quiet.
I
am allowed to pass across a frozen stream,
though
it is possible, I suppose,
that
I am merely part of the dream.
~William Hammett
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