by Jane Kenyon
The storm is moving on, and as the wind rises, the oaks and pines let go of all the snow on their branches, an abrupt change of heart, and the air turns utterly white. Woooh, says the wind, and I stop where I am, put out my arms and look upward, allowing myself to disappear. It is good to be here, and not here... I see fresh cloven prints under the apple tree, where deer come nosing for windfalls. They must be near me now, and having stopped when I stopped, begin to move again.
You can find this poem in Collected Poems.