And I would likethe foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingXI. Franklin's Last VoyageThe pain of being born into matter.Stunned in their voiceless way to be aliveSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,AppendicesIn search of brighter green to come. No way!This third day of our January thaw,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingI. Arctic SceneryDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeHigh on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreNever does any motion, sound, or light