Under the snow there is a path.
I know where it is.
The rest I don't know.
The trees are bundled
in their many-sleeved white fur coats,
Mice do their shopping in tunnels unseen.
Here some tracks appear—
a squirrel—and there disappear.
The sound of a woodpecker echoes,
but I can't find it.
The brook moves under its disguise of sleep.
The earth is turning,
the season, dressed in white,
making her slow walk down the aisle.
Sitting in prayer, most of what goes on
is not what I can see.
But it is a beautiful thing
to stand in the woods
and let the sun move
and listen to the wind.