In Florida, it's strawberry season<br>they sit with their wives all day in the sun,Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,The purest form is always the oneIs it almost honey, is it snow?And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringAre gliding toward me on the ice intoPlace of absorbing snow, itself to beCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night airCovering the land<br>In Florida, it's strawberry season<br>As if your human shape were what the stormThe snowflakes are swirling, blotting outSought to contrive, intending to expressSeen. What you know is only manifestIn the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,And beyond, the same sound of bees
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