For Poplar

The silver pillars of the oasis, by winter

More upright, simple, and sharp

The white earth enters the woodcut time

The snow covers the stubble like the beard of a madman

Turning the bare trees into

Spears and swords thrust into the sky

The earth has paused and fallen

Like a deep bottle of ink

Poplars have enough ink to cry with

The cold wind is in its bones, shaking off the dead leaves

Its lost pomp and words

This naked, mute tree

Is waking up from its hibernation

The uprising of the wind makes it rise up

Between the wind and the wind, between the tree and the tree

A nameless and majestic force

Searching for the cleft between life and death

Across the neat band of aspen forest

Is the plowed land and wilderness of the storm

Whistling or whimpering, both are

The absolute authority produced by nature