The snow,

It moves me so;

It covers everything we own

With the same color, texture, tone

That we seem truly one;

Yes,

That is well the fancy,

That is well the dream;

Yet life is never nearly quite so clean

As that might seem:

The earth,

She is our mother;

The dirt,

Makes us the same;

She is the way we are going;

She is from whence we came.

1977.02.12.0600