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[Naomi Mcleod <an...@corvallisvision.com>]

Given by nature will soak into it.A kind of snow, which hesitatesThe ordinary, wide scene which beginsThe winter road from the St. Simeon farmThe edge of that other square cut from the rightYes. The obviousXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfReshaping magnified, each risen flakeWide, whited fields, a way unframed at last"Now it's my turn to sing!"And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Shadows keep piling up as surfacesDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingToward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)Of meaning like these—the world created byThat images of roads, whether composed