Classic Poem

Snow panels, ice pipes, house the afternoon
whose poised arms lift prayer with the elm's antennae.
She has her wind of swift burrs whose spiel is gruff
scanning the white mind of the winter moon
with her blank miles Her voice is lower
than the clovers or the bassviol of seastuff

So void moons make a chaste anabasis
across the stalks of star and edelweiss
while Volga nixies and a Munich six
o'clock hear in the diaphane the rise
of one bassoon.
So, the immense frosts fix
their vacant death, bugs spray the roots like lice
and high blizzards broom the cold for answer
to their ssh of vapors and their vowel ooo.