What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that its
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Unabashed white, hilt of pure, bidden
common to bid common.
Let us say...we know of such things, to
know not of such things.
Such things are not of discerning order--
but go to the eyes and remain there, as
steadfast with world or other of like.
I submit, tiptoe by the gaping ear of a
slumbering angel.
Wrap me with mine own arms, with
increase to countenance the witness
I bore.
What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that their
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Come now I to know...come now winter
to know, by line of lowly poet, to lowly
snowflake...nothing is spent and not known.