Winter rises southeast—
Deer gnaw withered apples
as morning star fades
above indigo canyon.

Concealed in tall feathergrass
mountain lion nestles.
His tan body, mesmerized
like a stone fetish.

Sun blazes amber rays.
Snow powders the deer trail.
A hunter whispers through mist
his flowered prayer,

Muukai-tra Hush-tseh,
Meish guy-you, gumaa-tsinee,
Mountain Lion Man,
it’s already morning, help me.

Climbing Hawk Mountain
through blue juniper terrain
mountain lion leaps,
an arrow blest with pollen.

Winter sets southwest—
Deer in shadow tinged purple
enters spruce tree house
on his breath of every color.

The faint shadow of the morning moon?
Nay, the snow falling on the earth.
The mist of blossoming flowers?
Nay, poetry smiling up the sky.

Blow through me wind
As you blow through apple blossoms...
Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by...
Joyously I reunite... sway and gather to myself...
Sedately I walk by the dancing feet of children—
Not knowing I too dance over the cobbled spring.
O, but they laugh back at me,
(Eyes like daisies smiling wide open),
And we both look askance at the snowed-in people
Thinking me one of them.

Let us walk in the white snow
    In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
    At a tranquil pace,
    Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
    And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
    More beautiful
    Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
    In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
    Upon silver fleece,
    Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
    Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
    On white silence below.
    We shall walk in the snow.

When winter-time grows weary, I lift my eyes on high
And see the black trees standing, stripped clear against the sky;

They stand there very silent, with the cold flushed sky behind,
The little twigs flare beautiful and restful and kind;

Clear-cut and certain they rise, with summer past,
For all that trees can ever learn they know now, at last;

Slim and black and wonderful, with all unrest gone by,
The stripped tree-boughs comfort me, drawn clear against the sky.

On a clear winter's evening
The crescent moon 

And the round squirrels' nest
In the bare oak 

Are equal planets.