The crimson birds flit
From stem to branch
In the bright, brittle morning.
Across the gentle slope behind
A fine sheet of frost
Glows faint like a ghost
Disappearing into mist
In the rays of the silent sun.
Who can pass into such evanescent perfection
And touch the flight of the cold, red birds
And skate above the crystal carpet
Even as it vanishes, like a breath?