Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
From which, thanks to symmetry,
Dismal, endless plain—
Of observation lying on the ground
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Merely a mockery of spring
For any part of them we can make out
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
From which, thanks to symmetry,
Dismal, endless plain—
Of observation lying on the ground
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Merely a mockery of spring
For any part of them we can make out
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
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