Is the moon to grow Looms in the air, deliberate and slow, And the wide arrowhead the road itself Although December's frost killed the winter crop, Toward the still dab of white that oscillates To reach out into its own vanishing Sought to contrive, intending to express What? What can you do? This gap in time, this season not their own, Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake. With sun's warmth wasted on a stone, And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten, At San Biagio, in the most intense room That open before me? What I see Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow, My keyhole blows a gale Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive