For the frost

Cold days I breathe as breaths of winter snow;

whose gales our lungs will gladly hollow out,

and room for rest leave warmly thereabout

so soft white flakes may brace the mighty brow,

distilling peace. And finding in the dark

and restless places of the night, some sight:

that we might seethe of passions fore and past

and quench them—may they drink their selfish last

of living souls—whose bluster has no place,

I take into myself the snow; I am the gull

who, caught apart from flock, at last finds grace.