- Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
�Now that you notice it�have just moved past
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
M�re and P�re Chose are walking away from the
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Merely a mockery of spring
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular