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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>Figures of light and dark, these two are walking<BR>
Appear to lift up from the lake;<BR>And beyond, the same sound of bees<BR>
Rain. We are forced to fly,<BR>Pierced by the mist that fades away,<BR>
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing<BR>Swaying in unison beneath the snow,<BR>
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive<BR>By the design of our own silent eyes<BR>
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,<BR>At these masses the snow hides from me.<BR>
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,<BR>And the wide arrowhead the road itself<BR>
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc<BR>As it sits there like an eventual<BR>
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow<BR>Event, the end of the painted road ends up<BR>
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow<BR>That images of roads, whether composed<BR></FONT></DIV>
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