Late, low December sun
red through frosty haze.
Birches extend black branches,
glide, farther off, together
and form groves in the soft mist.
A thin crust of snow crunches,
shimmering mother-of-pearl green and blue.
It is easy to walk,
it is easy to breathe,
and easy to carry one’s heart as a bowl
open to the reddish-golden light
easy to bow down
in submissive acquiescenceunder the year’s wise law.