Issue 122, Spring 1992
For so long, I have wanted relatively nothing
Except, perhaps, this chance to write it down:
Here, for example, near a fire in a cold house,
A wide, full valley out my window
Spread to peaks whose marble reads as snow
And, within it and beyond it, captured miracles
Urged on by mid-air orchestras of angels.
Do all of us have places we believe
Made us ourselves? When last I saw this place
I thought I played a little with those angels.