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That images of roads, whether composed
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Of observation lying on the ground
Late February, and the air's so balmy
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Against this sky no longer of our world.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
That images of roads, whether composed
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
A frame of glided twilight—I
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields