“Alone I stare into the frost’s white face”

Alone I stare into the frost’s white face.   

It’s going nowhere, and I—from nowhere.   

Everything ironed flat, pleated without a wrinkle:   

Miraculous, the breathing plain.   

Meanwhile the sun squints at this starched poverty—

The squint itself consoled, at ease . . .   

The ten-fold forest almost the same . . .   

And snow crunches in the eyes, innocent, like clean bread.