A god

Through window panes clear he will see a pond,
yet it is too late to play in the snow,
for in pitch black twilight rare glow
paths the moonlight cold might bid for you fond.

If ever by clouds, hexed, in humid dews,
when the waterfall looks like a cracked pitcher,
and boughs lose those fragrant songs that chitter,
thriving in fields bovine jaws won't chew;

on the door is heard the tap...and the sigh,
yet key in my hand no glance will approach
to open narrow gates of heaven nigh;

nor schemes as a plot grown have we to broach;
warm rays fade away gifts winter gives prime
just as lush groves sacred it dares encroach.