Light mist on a sharp wind.

When two fences meet at a corner,
two thickets of bare plum bushes
also have met, and have blended
to soften the corner with clouds
of wine red canes and purple thorns.
Two weeks ago, they pulled a snowstorm
down out of the wind and spread
a long, soft drift beneath their branches,
and though by this morning the snow
had melted away from the field,
the drift sleeps, long and white and cold,
rounding the corner, an L shape
that gracefully tapers out to its ends
like a boomerang, a new one that never
flew back to the hand of the wind.