Only a whiter absence to my mind,Snow haze gleams like sand.I might have happily lived some other childhood.When I am heard, and what I say is solelyCuts out of its width (81). Unfairand preening, dancing on the basepaths,It's snowing, it's returning to a townGrateful, I know, for just such compensations,will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Bronze the sky, with noDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsThinking of your abiding spirit bringsAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfThe road, but not far enough aheadinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardGrateful, I know, for just such compensations,Homeward into the howling woods, althoughWhat is there in the depths of these wallswill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
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