Up slides the blind and out of remotest heaven
from a perlmutter sky
falls the pure, the Brownian, upward drifting snow
casually but surely, in high-blown whorls;
on the rail has settled a bluish inch.
'It's cold', croaks the bird, on yellow, thin legs,
so I rise. Snow fills last years rifts and sifts
on sticks and galls and nodes of last years'
pride, the dormant window boxes;
Outside you can almost hear it breathe;
It seethes, that bush
that stays green all the winter.
A day. To pass. A day to pass
till sleeping time, again, and blinded once more,
to sleep between footboard and bedstead; only snow-
penniless, homeless, less all
those things that fellow in the Citroen specified needing
hurtling down-Rhine, years ago, breeding
difficult to translate: There is nothing to do but go on
Chaos death is, one hears, and, frankly I'm not ready.
So many winters in one guesses it's all good: the season, the falling snow, the sleep.
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Comments about this poem (Uprisings by Morgan Michaels )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
(January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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