Swaying in unison beneath the snow,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;Onto my frozen fingers.Never does any motion, sound, or lightSuddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,Mère and Père Chose are walking away from theAre muffled into silence that refusesCome, swallows, it's good-bye.From which, thanks to symmetry,Of meaning like theseĀthe world created byThe paths of childhood.This perfection, this absence.Is it almost honey, is it snow?Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he castScrawny wolves, and you,to try that, to hold a terrifying beastAgainst this sky no longer of our world.
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