10 de Julio, 2007

Everywhere, utterly.
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
I know,
And beyond, the same sound of bees
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Yes. The obvious
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
It is as though I were at a second threshold.