A Marvel, on a High Hill

A marvel, on a high hill, a marvel!
a tree of copper with a silver bole,
weighed down with fronds of glass.
No lies, I promise. The mist was rising
from the near slopes, the wind blew crisp,
the leaves as the wind stirred them shifting
endlessly, endlessly: crystal feathers
muttering a tune random as rainfall
or the crackling notes of a fire.
What a trap for the sky’s last light!
And for me, too. I stood there under a spell.
My brow was brushed by frozen light; my boots
ground glittering shards.
And my heart, my heart was open to the sky,
and the tree’s whisper,
and the wind’s piercing.