The Angle Of Repose

By Peter Halstead

The night lies dormant on the snow.
Branches drift and doze.
Crystals glisten in the glow,
As if the constellations froze.

The slow wind eddies in the sweeps.
White hills slump and slough.
Mountains mushroom down the leaps,
Mounded foam and fluff.

The moon toboggans on the stoop,
Pillows on the stream.
Ice-packed needles glaze and droop
And night clouds steam.

The angles of the world repose;
The field when frosted isn’t steep.
The silver of the evening grows,
And the drifts of winter sleep.