XX. To the Pole
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
At these masses the snow hides from me.
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
People might see to be the opening
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Late February, and the air's so balmy
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
But when, on the timepieces that we call
But when, on the timepieces that we call
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
That this mud draws on the stone.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,