I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
This gap in time, this season not their own,
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
My keyhole blows a gale
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
My keyhole blows a gale
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
A pallid yellow lingers
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
More beautiful than anything in this world.
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
This gap in time, this season not their own,
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
My keyhole blows a gale
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
My keyhole blows a gale
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
A pallid yellow lingers
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
More beautiful than anything in this world.
