A Window in Maine

You will know what it is when an ice-spear
falls from the rafter and pierces the snow;
and at noon when the sun turns it
clear, turns it from spear to spindle,
glistening its death, and you will know
how love clings to the roof for as long
as it can, even to the undersides and edges,
as long as it can, before it slips and falls
and becomes so pure, rare
and luminous that it cannot bear
the intensity of its own slow failure.