The Snow Man  
        -- Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

The Neighborhood Watch

We must put on a mind of spring
to behold the damp bark and the still
arms of tulip-trees iced with cold rain;

and have been waiting through raw April days
anticipating maples stippled with bloody buds,
cedars greening in soggy-bottomed yards

under weak sun; and not imagine any
bitter snicker in the rush of freezing breeze,
the rattle of gutters and rotten leaves,

which is the muted scream of lowering clouds
still pregnant with winter's dry heaves,
retching up the last hailstone coughs over

the battered neighborhood -- which waits inside 
its thawing houses, and, nodding, imagines
everything underground, everything about to

explode --

Suggested soundtrack: Freezing rain on parked cars.