A matter of getting all that right . . .
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
And piled up at the base of the columns
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
This perfection, this absence.
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;