Snow Prints

DEEP in the pillow’s fold,
In the still night, the ears hold
A scurrying windless sound
On the snowy ground.

And the eyes above the sheet
See how the printed feet
Crisscross to left and right,
Pattern the white.

Then stir the senses, drowsed,
Not awake, nor yet roused
To the faint rhythmic tread
On the moon-veiled bed.

Then the night-dreams keep
Tryst with wonder in sleep,
Aware how little feel run
Under no sun —

How light as a feather’s mark
Are little feet in the dark,
Are little feet in the snow,
That come and go.