In the dark of the night,
when I switch on my light,
my bedside window is an echo of white.
Like a dim extension
of my room, it blends in,
reality merging with bedroom reflection.
At a glance I don’t know
what is quilt, what is snow,
and out of my bed a poplar tree grows
as the snow sings again
its mirrored refrain,
a white counterpoint to a white counterpane.