Delicately pounded overnight, the lower
appendages of our Norway spruce
flexed and the developing snow held them.
Windless daylight now, so I go out
wearing hip waders and conveying
not a fly bar but rather a garden scraper. I start
stressing the snow for the holdfast
of a branch that is so far down
a wren's home buoys above it like a float.
I work the scraper, not slashing but rather supporting,
at that point pull straight up. A current of air
as the needles hang their weight
over my head. Those effortlessness notes
of the snowfall, precious stones radiating
copper, green, rose—watching them
I lurch over a branch, go down
what's more, my gloves load with snow. Ok, I find
my dad here: I recollect as a tyke
how flares touched my hand the time
I added wood to the stove in our ice-angling
shanty, how he dove that hand
through the gap into the waterway, showing me
one sort of consuming can facilitate another.
The branch bounces at that point decreases into put
furthermore, pulls it together, looking
unaltered however all late spring
it will raise this day from underneath.