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["Beatrice Melendez" <helio@readingshopemann.com>]

This drizzling three-day January thaw,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Between the high and the low, in this night.
I know,
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
As it sits there like an eventual
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
Of observation lying on the ground
The bees are buzzing,
Astonished that you have returned to go
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition