Winter Cliffs

Like standing in the English Channel, looking
back at Dover's shore, chalky white limestone
topped with green hair, with dark trees.
But here the water is fresh and in tiny
flakes halfway between ice and liquid,
flowing between the old corn stalks
of a western New York field.

Here the cliffs are lower, a range remnant
rising up in anonymity; Arnold doesn't write
of these humble hills, but some know
their shape and form, curving tops,
soft embrace of valley--
those in the corn field standing,
in the trees singing,
who sleep nearby in beds of white,
who call this snowy rising theirs.