After Storm

Was there a wind?     Tap... tap...     Night pads upon the snow     with moccasined feet...     and it is still... so still...     an eagle's feather     might fall like a stone.     Could there have been a storm...     mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind...     tearing up the sky...     loose-flapping like a tent     about the ice-capped stars?     Cool, sheer and motionless     the frosted pines     are jeweled with a million flaming points     that fling their beauty up in long white sheaves     till they catch hands with stars.     Could there have been a wind     that haled them by the hair....     and blinding     blue-forked     flowers of the lightning     in their leaves?     Tap... tap...     slow-ticking centuries...     Soft as bare feet upon the snow...     faint... lulling as heard rain     upon heaped leaves....     Silence     builds her wall     about a dream impaled.