I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky, And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow 10 Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque, A dull dark white against the day's pale white And abstract larches in the neutral light. And then the gradual and dual blue As night unites the viewer and the view, And in the morning, diamonds of frost 20 Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed From left to right the blank page of the road? Reading from left to right in winter's code: A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat: Dot, arrow pointing back...A pheasant's feet! Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse, Finding your China right behind my house. Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes?
All colors made me happy: even gray. 30 My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit, Or, with a silent shiver, order it, Whatever in my field of vision dwelt-- An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte Stilettos of a frozen stillicide-- Was printed on my eyelids' nether side Where it would tarry for an hour or two, And while this lasted all I had to do Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves, 40 Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves.
I cannot understand why from the lake I could make out our front porch when I'd take Lake Road to school, whilst now, although no tree Has intervened, Ilook but fail tosee Even the roof. Maybe some quirk in space Has caused a fold or furrow to displace The fragile vista, the frame house between Goldworth and Wordsmith on its square of green.
I had a favorite young shagbark there 50 With ample dark jade leaves and a black, spare Vermiculated trunk. The setting sun Bronzed the black bark, around which, like undone Garlands, the shadows of the foliage fell. It is now stout and rough; it has done well. White butterflies turn lavender as they Pass through its shade where gently seems to sway The phantom of my little daughter's swing.
The house itself is much the same. One wing We've had revamped. There's a solarium. There's 60 A picture window flanked with fancy chairs. TV's huge paperclip now shines instead Of the stiff vane so often visited By the naive, the gauzy mockingbird Retelling all the programs that she had heard; Switching from chippo-chippo to a clear To-wee, to-wee; then rasping out: come here, Come here, come herrr'; flitting her tail aloft, Or gracefully indulging in a soft Upward hop-flop, and instantly (to-wee) 70 Returning to her perch--the new TV.
I was an infant when my parents died. They both were ornithologists. I've tried So often to evoke them that today I have a thousand parents. Sadly they Dissolve in their own virtues and recede, But certain words, chance words I hear or read, Such as"bad heart" always to him refer, And "cancer of the pancreas" to her.
A preterist: one who collects cold nests. 80 Here was my bedroom, now reserved for guests. Here, tucked away by the Canadian maid, I listened to the buzz downstairs and prayed For everybody to be always well, Uncles and aunts, the maid, her niece Adele, Who'd seen the Pope, people in books, and God.
I was brought up by dear bizarre Aunt Maud, A poet and a painter with a taste For realistic