The winter road from the St. Simeon farm The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,I seek, above all, in the wandering I draw near to one of them, the lowest,He never even dreams, being sheer snow; Where does this all end? What is the vanishingThis drizzling three-day January thaw, Only a whiter absence to my mind,Grateful, I know, for just such compensations, What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,watching calisthenics from the grandstands. Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowgrow hot in the parking lot, though they're A frame of glided twilight—IA pallid yellow lingers Empty streets I come upon by chance,Shadows keep piling up as surfaces Between the vertex that the far-lit grayWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
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