By the design of our own silent eyes As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of. Appendices Floating on the sky. They move against, or through, or by, or toward. Blurring the terrain, Wind, sleet. The branches sway, Brush the lone giant in that somber pall. Your red cheeks radiant against the wind, Archangel Winter, darkness on his back It's snowing, it's returning to a town Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form A pallid yellow lingers To pick up even the quickening of wind References Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
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