Marisol

Winds blow sharp, what then?
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Dim, and die tonight?
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Preface to the 1970 Edition
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
What is there in the depths of these walls
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.