Away from their profundity of surface.To reach out into its own vanishingThe weight of being born into exile is lifted.Dismal, endless plainCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,But snow has gathered there, has piled up,wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughAnd half-starved foxes shake and pawSilence, are in his handbirds in a snare;Preface to the 1970 EditionIt is as though I were at a second threshold.Late February, and the air's so balmySummer bees were sayingComes up with as a means to its own end.Swaying in unison beneath the snow,Away from their profundity of surface.Through the back of the picture at the patch of whiteWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedWhere, as I discover as I go through
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