Never does any motion, sound, or light
Blurring the terrain,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
The road, but not far enough ahead
Of observation lying on the ground
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Glimmering of light:
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
The surge of swirling wind defines
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
What? What can you do?
A matter of getting all that right . . .
Now that you notice it have just moved past