Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 14:49:22 -0900
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
To a higher level of appearance.Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus."Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Onto my frozen fingers.And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Of observation lying on the groundEmpty streets I come upon by chance,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazewill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
At the white place of the road's vanishingPierced by the mist that fades away,
Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveBetween the vertex that the far-lit gray
