To my enrainbowed eyes the trees are walking, <br />and the hawk is still as headland cliff. <br />What utter rapture at the end of stalking, <br />my dear Lord, now that I fly frozen stiff. <br /> <br />Each snowflake is a prism or a mirror <br />in a gallery of grimacing flame, <br />and every squealing self to You no dearer <br />than the birds that You hunt down for game. <br /> <br />You are, at last, a talon in the light <br />that clings in flight to a fear-stricken dove, <br />and I am the tears in the wake of fright <br />amid the falling feathers of our love.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frozen-stiff-2/
