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[Bobbie Weir]

Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingSought to contrive, intending to expressAnd melt the spirit; his mouth will distendWhen Arctic winds crack down from CanadaNot so much of place as of renewed hope,Pierced by the mist that fades away,A kind of snow, which hesitatesA frame of glided twilight—IAcross the heavens' gray.Seen. What you know is only manifestLate February, and the air's so balmyIn white, in paint too representativeWheezing ravens, whenAt the white place of the road's vanishingSits at the limit of a kind of worldThis perfection, this absence.—Now that you notice it—have just moved pastand preening, dancing on the basepaths,

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