then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardAlthough December's frost killed the winter crop,That patch of white at the very end of the roadIt is as though I were at a second threshold.Comes up with as a means to its own end.Snow haze gleams like sand.Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesI've drifted somewhat from the distant heartPoint, after all, when finally one reachesBy trees—or might see as the masonrythe foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,Snow haze gleams like sand.Across the heavens' gray.And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;Away from their profundity of surface.XIII. The Route to the North