Issue 12, Spring 1956
I turn to enter, turning from those frozen
Sunfields, when I see the rage of flakes,
Diminished into shaves of gold, and streaming
Each its up or down, until it strikes
Out of that suncaught area. This depth
Of air on fire will reel within my mind,
When summer shines a spin of pollen, leapt
Up madly to my careless eye. No doubting
Much of flux careens unseen by eyes
Where we walk knowingless: a different sun,
A rare careen of brilliance takes the eye.
Zeus came in a golden shower, seeding Danae
With violent light, until she burned all known.
But we must wait for sun on snow so long
That analogues of sunrage fail our minds,
And realms of sense in spin lack issue. One old
Claim of thought had guessed us all such spin,
The heart and tendon, genitals and hands,
A gross and ceaseless churn of atoms destined
To the finer airs at last. Or why
Do I turn back to stare such rage of flakes?
Every change that winter could astound
Me with might start here, now alone in snow,
Beside a bridge, in air that lack of sound
Weighs down, and there the bank of pines that grow
Without me. Lord the massive snow surrounds,
Until the pressing scene lends weight to match
This grand downdrift of massless flakes. Oh pounds
Uncountable of me weight down the patch
Of snowsoil I am standing on. Oh change,
Surprise me now with purpose which had lost
Its name, and losses which breed strength for strange
Redemptions. Vacant realms in me are crossed
And livened by an inner fall of peace,
Which solemn single falls of flake release.
I call up yesterday’s alarm of storm
That stirred me, walking peaceward in the dusk,
That charged this narrow corridor through pines,
That blew a windy hour wildly warm
For autumn’s ways. Oh how could I agree
To guess at weathers then? A hint of sea,
A scent of some disturbance over waters
Found me where I lay last night, and waged
Excitements with my fall time ease of self,
Unrestful sense of absent arctics stirs
Some inner summer: but how was I to guess
At freeze and flake ? I would have less success,
I’ve heard, to plan by starshapes: then I slept.
But now I stand, alarmed by lightfierce shed
Of snow about this corridor of pines,
And sift of flakes through needly pine boughs. Leapt
Up will to summer takes dismay at beauty,
And this newmorn aches the eyes of me.
I’m swiftly taken by a widened sense,
To guess beneath this forest snowgrace, ways
That I had walked through dusk, and snowy season’s
Rule inaugurated in immense
Obscurities of silence while I slept.
The lossful pain of yesterdays unkept.