Be perfectly still, like the apple-twigs!

Sit rigidly, till the mist wears thin

and eyes can go from trees like ghosts

to trees with low-lapped roots that hold

dank, sagging grass, soaked leaves and mast;

till puppets pass on silent paths;

till you hear rooks crake, and a clicking gate,

and the postman shake drips from his cape;

till earth dries hard, and cold chips sharp

on fields unscarred by a rattling cart,

and flat ponds freeze, while puffed birds cheep

in glass-bound trees, and with smooth glee

bold children slide; till breath steams white,

and cooks provide for birds and mice

with bone and crumb, with bit and crust;

till the skin is numb and body's a husk

and stark as steel, without a seed,

and hand-tips feel like prongs…. Then reach

through the closed pane where spotting flakes

curtain the plane of intimate, grave

silence we enter, waiting to witness

the waking of winter: and touch a crystal

of icicle moulding a stubborn stone,

of snowdrift folding over the road

and the hunchback roofs; the piecrust pool;

the slipping hoofs and the mistletoe moons;

the pealing spire and Joseph's surprise

and the angel choir and the new lamb's cry—

all you remember of God Rest You Merry,

of white December—and blood on the berry!