In Winter Light

There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to a milky spate
~Wild Peaches (IV), Elinor Wylie

"So, you think there's beauty in bare branches, brown leaves and rainy days?" she asked the young sixteen-year-old one blustery day.

Softly the snow falls in winter light,
And quiet like a child's sadness
Born silent and alone
In the dusky town. . . Softly the clouds part into light pale as drying straw,
Blue, blue and yet again most blue
Colors of a day, drawn against a paper birch,
All white and bright as a new born lamb
Trembling on new spring legs
Loved and alone.

"Madame Teacher, begging your forgiveness, there's nothing wrong with springsummerfall; they're even. Taking nothing away from any RobinHoneysuckleDewyRedbudJonquil, I still love this winter light. . ."

I dream of small black bears
sleeping in silver caves by snowy river banks;
I step stone by slippery stone
Across the clear ice-flecked water,
Shall I waken?
Dreaming of marmoset and beaver,
Dreaming Indian dreams
Of small, bright-eyes,
Scurrying or cruel but always Bright. . .

"Madame, I perceive a day In future time-bare winter time: I edit a small weekly. A hunter comes by the office holding a red-tailed hawk by the legs. Shot, probably dying. Held upside down, bleeding in winter light. The tall one holds it up for me.

" 'Get out that camera of yours; take our picture with this here bird,' " the tall one says.

I sleep with the winter things;
the bared fang and claw things.
seeing that I am as a vapor they yawn and turning around, curl up and sleep again,

(Even now I see that when I am a man, I shall still dream sometimes of silly sugar plums and
toy soldiers who crack nuts with wooden teeth.)

"Madame, Can you see that I could not take that winter picture. . . Those wild, cruel eyes pierced too deeply, ripped out my heart, spilled my bright blood On that white ground. . . "

Drawing wider and wider spirals in the chalky sky,
Silent wings:
The gray squirrel, the tiny vole slip into shadow.