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This third day of our January thaw,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arc Unreadable from behind—they are well downwith visors. Their brave recreational vehicles Out of the picture of life, as it were, outThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones —Now that you notice it—have just moved pastWhat I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows, "Now it's my turn to sing!"To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake. Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveOr by the loud hand of painting, always puts. At San Biagio, in the most intense roomTo have been claimed by what we see of what Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsToward . . . that seems to be the whispered question Life, or only joy, that stands outNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.