Trampled snow is the only rose. They tear apart the mist, it is as though,With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps And up there I cannot tell if it is stillDown the long course of the gray slush of things My only thought is for what hasYes. The obvious Sought to contrive, intending to expressSeized from creation by nonentity, And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,to restaurants for Early Bird Specials. How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,With sun's warmth wasted on a stone, to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.Figures of light and dark, these two are walking Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesWould their world not remain comfortably A salamander scuttles across the quietChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
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