Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Dim, and die tonight?
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Not daring to oppose
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Astonished that you have returned to go
Summer bees were saying
The pain of being born into matter.
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
XIII. The Route to the North
I. Arctic Scenery
I know,
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe