Some say these winter hills are sad.
I think not so.
Gray bark and snow
are just the world in homespun clad,
plain and simple, honest and bare
to branch and root,
dry underfoot —
these are the ones who do not dare
rebellion or unruly flight.
The withered sleep,
the dream they keep,
to them is wisdom’s light.
Green is the melancholy hue:
seedling and twig,
blossom and sprig,
rioting upward, askew,
climbing aslant in May’s folly
following one
devious sun—
how can this be melancholy?
Just ride the suicidal breeze:
seed-spewing trees,
lecherous bees,
the wingèd birds’ hypocrisies —
These are false harbingers of joy.
What use are they?
Their vernal play
is but a manic’s fevered ploy.
Wait till the frost arrives — what then?
The birds fly south.
The wizened mouth
of fruit and flower saddens men
With bitter kisses youth should scorn —
the chill and numb
chrysanthemum
as blanched and dry as ravaged corn —
The maples shorn have been undone —
the barren vine
a twisted line
of snake embracing skeleton —
The lily stalks are cripple canes.
The pale worm flees
the apple trees.
A gray mist fills the lanes.
Green is the hue
betraying you
for a handful of earth
or a moment of dew!
— December 17, 1978, New York; revised 1981, 1993, rewritten in 1995.
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