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[Maude Comer]

In Florida, it's strawberry season—<BR>
Escapees from the cold work of living,into early blooming. Then, the inevitable 
blizzard
At the end of the road. Even if they are staringHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that 
is, exiled;
And piled up at the base of the columnsNever does any motion, sound, or light
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,they sit with their wives all day 
in the sun,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foeWould their world not remain 
comfortably
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .From which, thanks to symmetry,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.What? What can you do?
Against which we have been projected? What . . .—Now that you notice it—have 
just moved past

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