Rhonda

How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
To reach out into its own vanishing
For any part of them we can make out
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
II. Quest and Conquest
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Oh you builders,
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Away from their profundity of surface.
As it sits there like an eventual
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
My only thought is for what has
Is it almost honey, is it snow?