Sonnet

The frost is on the tree's skyward face
As if sieved through starholes when the dry
Bitter prickly vacuum of space
Drops down upon the ground. Though to the eye
The tree-face shades the patch of lawn below
From the starry cold that whitens all
Around as if in powdery snowfall,
In truth its underside has slowed the flow
Of heat up from the surface of the grass
Into the limitless open death
Of the coldly waiting universe.
The crystal whiteness of a dying breath,
The frost stretches towards the open sky.
Impressions end like a stopped lullaby.


Light on the Garden
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