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stubble burning 135
Here put into a book
And each word like a stone
Found where I chance to stop
And thus irregular,
Hefted and so piled up
They all, though out of line,
geron's winter walk
What, stirred still again as I stepped outdoors,
Mind at idle this winter day,
By how the low sun so lightly lay
On the leaves of my creekside sycamores,
Thin copper and bronze all bent and bright.
-- And you, brushing the tips of the dark boughs
of my old pine listing over the house,
O mild-in-mid-December light.