Winter Valley

I

Grey grasses drown
in thin brown water
Wound like a chain on the valley's
Sunken breast.

Fallen leaves on the stream
Float motionless--rest--
So secretly the pale
Water winds around
Toward hidden pools,

Or sinking in the earth
Is drowned.

II

Curved crimson stems,
Thorny fingers of vine,
Reach toward the wind.

Sunlight, thin and cold,
Touches them--they shine.

Nothing passes for thorns to hold--
Red thorns,
Catching at shadows of the wind.