For weeks hes tunneled his intricate need
Through the root-rich, fibrous, humoral dark,
Buckling up in zagged illegibles
The cuneiforms and cursives of a blind scribe.
Small tributaries open from his nudge
Mild immigrant, bland isolationist,
Berm builder edging the runneling world.
But now the snow, and hes gone quietly deep,
Nuzzling through a muzzy neighborhood
Of dead-end-street, abandoned cul-de-sac,
And boltrun from a dead-leaf, roundhouse burrow.
May he emerge four months from this as before,
Myopic master of the possible,
Wise one who understands prudential ground,
Revisionist of all things green;
So when he surfaces, lump-like, bashful,
Quizzical as the flashbulb blind who wait
For color to return, hell nose our green-
rich air with the imperative poise of now.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 18 Number 9, on page 40
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