Recital in a Frozen Hall

Seldom do the birds call when a sallow blanket falls
down the river fluid airscape of our Earth's most barren halls.
Fie to falling snowflakes chip the egret or the crow,
and the relics of November scoured
in glazen thick of snow,
each the birch's frozen paper
or the spruce's needle locked,
in a lattice water sheath that sparkles,
craven of the glow,
and a wind that whistles bleakly making needles of the snow,
and so now I see a frozen cloud, hanging fore my nose,
as the frigid apparition goes,
I go,
and a new one stands in spruce-birch stands,
listening for birds,
Winter taking breath and being,
leaving just these words.