Unreadable from behind—they are well down
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
The line between the outside and this room
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
In a single floral stroke,
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
How can they get the point of how a world
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
With a hand freed from weight,
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Labels: Spam Folder Poetry
that was actually lovely. My spam has been valiantly trying to write David Copperfield.