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Arthur Winslow freds at gragg-ross.com
Mon Aug 27 12:09:01 PDT 2007


To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Of observation lying on the groundEverywhere, utterly.
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down toI. Arctic Scenery
In search of brighter green to come. No way!Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
The surge of swirling wind definesPierced by the mist that fades away,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
At San Biagio, in the most intense roomOf too much truth to do much more than lie
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
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