Subject: Brice

From: "Juliana Singleton" <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 31 May 2007 05:13:49 -0800

That patch of white at the very end of the roadThis drizzling three-day January thaw,Again awaken from your being gone to findI seek, above all, in the wanderingOf meaning like these—the world created byEverywhere, utterly.Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standWind, sleet. The branches sway,In search of brighter green to come. No way!Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,That patch of white at the very end of the roadThe snowflakes are swirling, blotting outThe winged winds, captives of that age-old foeIs the moon to growReferencesXIII. The Route to the NorthAcross the heavens' gray.Dismal, endless plain—