Aspens
You would say they are white
They are not white
And their secret is
A private cleanliness
You would say the sound
Their leaves make is slight
It is not slight the sound
Of the leaves is the sound
Of very small stones
Rolled under the tide
A sound that’s kept you awake
On certain nights haunted
As if on a back stair
Or here at the window
Drawn again by the meadow
Thin transparent cold