Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form And I would like Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo, Snow haze gleams like sand. "Be off!" say Winter's snows; Trampled snow is the only rose. Blurring the terrain, So you can watch me watch uplifted snow Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive In white, in paint too representative Covering the land?br> Shadows keep piling up as surfaces Calling me to you with wild gesturings Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead