Beneath the silver snow which has gathered
And gathered for days and days
Between a dream and waking in
A cold purple January dusk. Beside the tender
Tongues of root far below the cold silver
Snow which gathers and gathers--
Sleep the soon to be moths
Of summer, those murky wings of midnight
Sleep with no sound gracefully in the warmth
Of the earth among the beginning of a
Million single sexless flowers (which
One day will guide them on the forsaken
Path of desire) deep beneath the lascivious
Warm moon will make love and love.