Arctic

Sometimes the air blows cool enough to smell
The crackle of it in the midnight breeze,
The fragrances of winter, which can tell
Of hibernating, half-decaying trees
Sleeping in near death the long cold while
Before they wake again to springtime rains,
And of the ice-encased drowned dead leaf pile
For which the gardener took such great pains
Some months ago, sadly but to forget
It's timelier dispersal, or of frosts
Chilling what would be buds if they were let,
But are not now because of winter's costs.
This is not such a time; the wind is hot
And memory is all the cool I've got.