1496

The tree in a field of snow-

What continues?

In the stillness

Signs of motion pock the crust-

A small-pawed past made future

To the present eye.

What continues when the snow receding

Makes tongues upon the earth,

And the unfigured air's the sublimated signs

Turning now to what is once?

A still unravished hour before those intervening,

But memory's yet to come.