Are gliding toward me on the ice into
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
Merely a mockery of spring
Floating on the sky.
Summer bees were saying
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,