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Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
In white, in paint too representative
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
The line between the outside and this room
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
>From which, thanks to symmetry,
This perfection, this absence.
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Between the high and the low, in this night.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Dim, and die tonight?
Billows the fog, cloaks
Away from their profundity of surface.
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
What is there in the depths of these walls
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