Silvius Bonus, Piecemeal Abscission

Air crisply pale, white barbotine on glazed
green earthenware.
Smashed edges of cloud-laden weald.
My breath held, then my breath exhaled.
Hands cupped about my mouth for warmth. The raw,
weak pink of sunrise. Chilblains raised
afresh each night. And yet, how bare
the deer-tracks beckon back to glades
uncut by sickles. The odd globe
of mistletoe in trees. Folds grazed
by deep shadow
on middle-distance hills. So near.
I love, however mere, this pause
before the onrush of the gorse
with thorny blossom breaks the hush of ice.
Some latter age’s frost has crazed
my windowpanes. The vista here
looks out on beauty tears might blur.
I stand amazed
that now, as always, I, at home
in dry-eyed awe,
may see each branch and leaf this time
perfected by a crystal rime
and fear no blighting cold so much as thaw.