Where's Wallace Stevens on a Monday morning

when through twelve trees deep
in February
I try to see
through twisted, tangled,
cross-hatched limbs and twigs
brown and gray
in sunshine frost?

A white slat house
under gray shingles
squats in the depths
of the wood gaps.

My view rattles
with no sudden wind
no steady breeze.
Utility poles push up
past the scene
my classroom windows provide.

What answers lie
without
that don’t lie within?

A sudden rev
of a delivery truck’s engine
and two tail-chasing squirrels
shake the silence
of this framed inner view.