Maple Blood

The hills along the river,

White and cold in the snow,

Are bodies through which the blood

Has ceased to flow.

And the brow

Of every hilltop scowls

As only the dead scowl.

(With death there is no thought.)

But even now,

Where the beast of death prowls

As only beasts of death prowl,

A miracle is wrought.

In the bloodless brain

There is no thought or reason,

But the head of every hill

Knows the year and its season.

And a red mist

Deep in the valleys

Where the river lies frozen and dead

Brings thought to senseless hills,

A thought of warm wind kissed,

That rallies,

Through the frozen winter mind,

From the blood of young maples, tender and red.