The way the snow is hanging

The way the snow is hanging on the tree
Looks fake, as if a painter were unskilled
And clumped the snow in bricks of white quite free
From rules of snowflake art.  He merely willed

The shapes into these clumsy forms like rods
Of plastic molded to the ashen bark.
The snow is thick and clings like sticky clods
Of whitened earth that have no shadow, stark

Like absence in these crowded woods.  They stand
In summer with their busy, dappled leaves,
With pointilistic shapes more thrown than planned,
A splatter canvas, growth that sprays and weaves.

What else have I forgotten then to see
If in my mind I bungle snow on tree.