Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down—
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes—
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there—
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

1 Comment

  1. L'esperance Tile Works says:

    This poem will soon be used as the starting point of carved tile images, along the lines of an Arthur Osborne carving with subtle hints at enormous depth.

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