by Norman Dubie

    The birches stand in their beggar's row：

    Each poor tree

    Has had its wrists nearly

    Torn from the clear sleeves of bone，

    These icy trees

    Are hanging by their thumbs

    Under a sun

    That will begin to heal¹ them soon，

    Each will climb out

    Of its own blue， oval² mouth；

    The river groans³，

    Two birds call out from the woods

    And a fox crosses through snow

    Down a hill； then， he runs，

    He has overcome something white

    Beside a white bush， he shakes

    It twice， and as he turns

    For the woods， the blood in the snow

    Looks like the red fox，

    At a distance， running down the hill：

    A white rabbit in his mouth killed

    By the fox in snow

    Is killed over and over as just

    Two colors， now， on a winter hill：

    Two colors！ Red and white. A barber's bowl！

    Two colors like the peppers

    In the windows

    Of the town below the hill. Smoke comes

    From the chimneys⁴. Everything is still.

    Ice in the river begins to move，

    And a boy in a red shirt who woke

    A moment ago

    Watches from his window

    The street where an ox

    Who's broken out of his hut

    Stands in the fresh snow

    Staring cross-eyed at the boy

    Who smiles and looks out

    Across the roof to the hill；

    And the sun is reaching down

    Into the woods

    Where the smoky red fox still

    Eats his kill. Two colors.

    Just two colors！

    A sunrise. The snow.

上一篇：February: Thinking of Flowers 下一篇：Visiting Pai-an Pavilion