Winter Morning at Windows, Reading Emily Dickinson
Everything the color of the fog.
Slender branches of weeping cherry
curve, supple in a frozen season.
The soft-white orb of a sun slants
through the gauze,
hints of a world outside this.
You imagine the explicit blue
above, the misting of the earth
a white illusion.... Slowly perceptible
in the softening, clear water
drips from trees and fences,
the deepened landscape clarifies
and lifts into azure.