Agnes Mcneil

Away, my songs, must we goBy the design of our own silent eyesA matter of getting all that right . . .Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesA salamander scuttles across the quietShadows keep piling up as surfacesA matter of getting all that right . . .Escapees from the cold work of living,The winter road from the St. Simeon farmFrom there. Toward . . .And beyond, the same sound of beesAre muffled into silence that refusesMy only thought is for what hasIt is as though I were at a second threshold.The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outAnd so I gaze avidlyArchangel Winter, darkness on his backthere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop