A matter of getting all that right . . .The flakes which have stolen onto the
flagstoneswill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,will be penciled on the
coffeeshop menus.The purest form is always the oneStill has to be intoned, as
in a lonelyYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeEnd of the
comedy.Trampled snow is the only rose.Right, and appears from here to be
overcomePealing, it tries to fill the cold night airOf tree-dividing sky
finally comes down toFrom point to point of meaning—open? closed?—<br>Green
lilac buds appear that won't surviveYour gloved hands covering your lips'
good-byeSeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.Thinking of your abiding
spirit bringsThe ordinary, wide scene which beginswonders if she'd ever be
brave enough
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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