Member Poem

Were this a whisper kept low, soft; as though
Winter sun shadow-sifted, tossed amidst
The sweep of scattered limb and splintered bough,
A gentle breeze that under canopies
Of icicles had crept, so soon dismissed
By idle cardinal's chatter in the eaves-
Never, no.
Insistent instead; a pitch high and clear,
To shake some constant evergreen alight,
Awake, aware; needle-sharp, piercing drear
And dulled alike that were culled of glisten
In fiercest dark of bare, blanched friendless night.
This, then; from whistling wind to branch: listen,
Hearken, hear.