Faintly—but
for real
this time—like echoes
of some funny
old words—that only
afterwards
in retrospect
came
dancing their way
length-
wise
across the plain
edges of
your dim young face—
now
the rows
and rows
of snowy
continental fields all seem
this morning
to really feel
the gentle golden
kiss of sun
and finally
blush with a more
legitimate
ardor—in my own dry
and cracked
and broke
and coping
brutal winter face's
toiling
hard to laugh—direction.
