$269.90 Creative Suite 3

Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
So, startled, quivering,
My only thought is for what has
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Merely a mockery of spring
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
The line between the outside and this room
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead