Derrick

Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Yes. The obvious
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Centimeters≈that the height of the canvas
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
What? What can you do?
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Dim, and die tonight?