The tree – again! – it’s roaring white
Firing snow into the air
Lean long branches flash, declare:
‘The word, the world, is white’ Delight
In overcoming glints of green
Within its depths, it will be seen
And seen as snow and blossom white.
The coming evening, easing wind
Fails to calm the boughs sequinned
With blossom – till another night
And sleep curtains you from our sight
And then we dream – of blossom white.