I have gone out into the snow,
braving the winter’s fiery cold,
and searched for rabbit high and low
when frosty mitts refused to hold.
perfect pearl blue.
When among the trees will autumn come?
What multitude of words will I have lost
among the soft-dying of sweet summer poppies
The heart is a hunter searching
before the dead of winter has melted;
Under the figs
I woke to fog and dew,
white oaks, and mist
Going back now, I see the stand of pines,
the mountain climbing out of green to white
caps enshrouded in clouds and flanked by snow.
My breath fogs the window,
some promise out of science
The summer crests and meets
fleeting flecks of dyeing dog days,
an era vanishes into the past—