A Poem From 1966

Days above morning, flying leaves leaving Out crimson’s crisp echo before the sharp blast. Out crimson’s crisp echo I flying leaves leavings, watch days above morning will sharp winds ride? In this calm serene half-a-world away unseen high and high gasping the highest col raking in final pierced rays of a cold sun’s begone on grays of fierce snow crystal crystal quiet alone caused shattered collapses of ice-tons descending is there a noise if no one can hear?