This drizzling three-day January thaw,Snow haze gleams like sand.Gray the cloud-like oaksYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeToward the still dab of white that oscillates
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteIs the moon to growSide of the painting, the world of that wise, white,People might see to be the openinggrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reAt the white place of the road's vanishingOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeEscapees from the cold work of living,