Roger Desy
— the northern mid-winter orbit — closest to the sun —
is most remote from squalls strewing their random coils
over the purer surfaces of perfect fields
— on ground — stone to the frost line — snows press their weightlessness
over a windfall beyond sweetness — ripening
under the insulation of a patience with the lure of pomace crushed
to the irresistible ephemera of a decaying scent
cast on the silence of a wisp hissing the windy stillness
— surrounded by the oblivion of the afternoon of evening
an anonymity of apple buds embedded in the tips of twigs
under the soft frigidity of snow — in their own whiter fetal winter down
biding their hibernation on the blinding clarity of the exposure
— is nipped at by an innocence of hunger
— as selflessness — in the satiety — samples itself