grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsPoint, after all, when finally one reaches
Where does this all end? What is the vanishingA matter of getting all that right . . .
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formAlthough December's frost killed the winter crop,
That only you and I can know. Les deuxTo run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;References
The road, but not far enough aheadSet on that tomb in the eternal night;
That images of roads, whether composedshaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesXIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopThat neither the motionless farm couple trudging
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