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