In which a pile of snow rises to the white sky: It reaches for its soul.
My love, my labor, is to pronounce, transmute its depth as the sun sets
on the satellite dish. I write a book of snow; it opens itself.
Snow is designed for grandeur; it propagates its destiny by bedazzling its coat.
Snow is designed for posterity; it fortifies its enterprise by educating the exposed.
Language, having achieved complete mobility, crosses gaps and streams and walls,
I know this snow: It smells of clover. It is a form of marrow. It is inside us
like lichen in a mine. Carried in a song from century to century, it achieves both
peace and power in one exalted lifeline.
Snow in a forest is the quilt stitched over History.
Snow on a city street is an anecdote.
The pious parking lot snow is closed; it accumulates infinities within its bounds
like an inexhaustible poetic theme.
Silently, snow flies through me. I, who long for snow, look outside myself.