A thoughtful snow comes falling . . .
seems to hang in the air before
concluding that it must fall
here. Huge aggregate flakes

alight on the muddy ruts
of March, and the standing
water that thaws by day
and freezes again by night.

Venus is content to shine unseen
this evening, having risen serene
above springs, and false springs.
But I, restless after supper, pace

the long porch while the snow falls,
dodging the clothesline I won’t
use until peonies send up red,
plump, irrepressible spears.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 8 Number 2, on page 40
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