Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedBrush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Onto my frozen fingers.Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Where does this all end? What is the vanishingSnow haze gleams like sand.
To follow in the path of their brief blossomingToward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Is the moon to growPealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Would their world not remain comfortablyII. List of Franklin Search Parties
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
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