Nancy

A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Writhing their stunted limbs,
My keyhole blows a gale
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
M�re and P�re Chose are walking away from the
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
And piled up at the base of the columns
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
From there. Toward . . .
Glimmering of light: