The brief chillsuspends all things in rime --
leaf and vine,
and stone nook
where wateroften trickles down
into a sponge of moss -- the holy green
in late Autumn
of hard rain
or the long dayon its knees from news
the wind delivered.
A shroud of frostdrapes the garden and still
in the ancient pines.
among the many arteries
of bark. Song birds sent
and pumped into brilliantpalpitation
by an Unseen Hand.